


The Consort

by Redring91



Series: The Consort [1]
Category: The Mummy (1999), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse (2016)
Genre: 10 Plagues, Action/Adventure, Altered Mental States, Altered States, Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs, Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Charles Xavier, BAMF Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Consent Issues, Creepy En Sabah Nur, Creepy Sebastian Shaw, Curses, Death, Emotional Manipulation, En Sabah Nur is an Obsessive Stalker, Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad, Erik Lehnsherr is So Done, Erik is a Sweetheart, Flirting, Four Horsemen, Identity Issues, Idiots in Love, Kidnapped Erik Lehnsherr, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Minor Irene Adler/Raven | Mystique, Mummies, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsession, PROTECT ERIK LEHNSHERR AT ALL COSTS, Quests, Raven is a Bisexual Disaster, Sebastian Shaw Being an Asshole, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, Shaw can rot in Hell, Souls, denial is a river in egypt, one-sided Erik Lehnsherr/En Sabah Nur, one-sided Erik Lehnsherr/Sebastian Shaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91
Summary: The land of Ancient Egypt was ruled over by the First One, the great En Sabah Nur, who was worshipped as a god. But when he sought to produce an army of gifted disciples, he was betrayed, and his Horsemen slain. En Sabah Nur was entombed beneath the City of the Dead, condemned to an undead existence.Librarian Charles Xavier and his sister Raven enlist former prisoner Erik Lehnsherr to aid them with an expedition to Hamunaptra. The presence of Sebastian Shaw, leading a rival archaeological team, complicates matters. The excavation quickly turns dire as evil is reawakened. En Sabah Nur is determined to continue his work – and regards Erik essential to his success.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Everyone, Erik Lehnsherr & Raven | Mystique, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Raven | Mystique & Charles Xavier
Series: The Consort [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955302
Comments: 238
Kudos: 75





	1. Death is only the beginning…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kigichi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kigichi/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancient Egypt – sand, shadows, and spells; failure, fights, and foreshadowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Because everyone needs more Erik Lehnsherr appreciation in their life, and I will happily oblige.
> 
> Obviously, the majority of the framework for this story will come from The Mummy (1999). The themes of violence, obsession, and death present throughout are comparable with those in The Mummy and X-Men: Apocalypse, as well as The Mummy (2017).
> 
> The Ancient Egyptian Horsemen’s powers as per XMA: telekinesis and shielding (Death); strength and durability (Pestilence); muscular disintegration (War); and pyrokinesis (Famine).
> 
> [Happy birthday Kigichi! Enjoy!]
> 
> -

<><><><><>

Hamunaptra. City of the Dead.

She is glad to return. As Death, she is the keeper of this place, a monument of glory and wealth to their god, the great En Sabah Nur, the First One, ruler over the land and all its kingdoms.

She nods to Pestilence and to War, standing vigil at the entrance of the outermost passageways, as she passes them. The city is empty save for her fellow Horsemen, their god, and the most recently acquired acolyte; common subjects are not permitted on this sacred ground, under pain of death – and she is not merciful.

Death carries her cloth-wrapped bundle down to the Primordial Tomb, deep beneath the city. The vast chamber is brightly lit; the braziers maintain their sizable flames well, even when Famine – currently positioned on the intermediate landing, where the stairs change direction from north to east – is absent.

When she reaches the base of the stairway, Death kneels.

The First One is standing by the spirit-pool, watching concentric ripples lap gently across the surface of the black liquid, as if stemming from invisible droplets landing at the centre. He turns towards her, gestures for her to rise. “Do you have it?”

Death pulls back a fold of the cloth, revealing the golden book wrapped within it. “The Book of Amun-Ra, my Lord.”

He smiles. She basks in his approval as she would the sun’s rays, pleased to have served faithfully. He beckons and she approaches, rounding the pair of raised slabs and the low pedestal between them, to join him by the spirit-pool. She offers up the book.

En Sabah Nur takes it, uses the key to unseal the lock, and browses the pages for the incantation which will reinforce his dominion over all other living beings. He indicates the crucial passage to her.

As she recites the words from the book, an opaque shroud rises from the spirit-pool, mist condensing into thin ribbons which curl around the god, adorning him as armour. The mist then sinks into his vivid blue skin, painting raised lines across his body to showcase the merger between the spell’s power and the First One’s own _heka._ The lines stabilise as she finishes the chant, becoming permanent aspects of his flesh.

They both look to the acolyte, lying prone on the far slab, as the body demonstrates the incantation’s success quite effectively – the acolyte’s skin, which had been emitting a glow as bright as gold, dims into a paler shade akin to weak candlelight.

Death shifts the golden book to one hand, raising the other towards the slab. At her will, her shielding billows into existence as easily as it always has, the barrier holding firmly as it surrounds the acolyte, her gift unimpeded. She lowers her hand again, letting the shield dissipate.

Now anyone within reach of the god’s presence, save those marked with his favour, will be unable to access the fullest extent of their gifts.

<><><><><>

Her fondness for the black Book of the Dead stems from an initial appreciation of its name. Her pride in acting as the First One’s advocate during the Communion has only grown with each endeavour. She positions herself before the ritual slabs, the book splayed open in her hands, as En Sabah Nur makes his final preparations.

The god places the two sundials he’s constructed side by side on the middle pedestal and pours black sand onto the two increments furthest from each other. More black sand is placed on the unoccupied slab, a thin layer arranged in the image of a small body. A template for the life the Communion will produce.

Now set to begin, the First One approaches the other slab. At the god’s touch, the acolyte awakens; the humble servant readily welcomes the Communion. At her god’s behest, Death speaks the rites.

The etched characters on the sides of the slabs begin to glow with white light. The sand on each sundial spreads, sliding along the increments like shadows, until both timepieces are covered entirely. The other slab is no longer unoccupied; the image of a body has grown into a physical form, sand now more closely resembling flesh.

The acolyte screams. The disciple’s heart starts to beat.

The surface of the spirit-pool churns – a spirit form emerges from the deep, weaving through the air towards the slab. It settles into the body, binds to the heart.

Finished with the rites, Death closes the book. Now comes the vital stage – whether the disciple’s _ka_ endures unto the Blessing. If it does, this disciple will herald a new army of warriors, existing only to serve their god’s will.

But it does not.

The First One is partway through the Blessing, the shadows receding on the timepieces, when the ritual fails. The disciple’s own shadow vanishes; flesh withers, as does the spirit. The disciple screeches, squirming.

“Weak,” En Sabah Nur declares. “Dispose of it.”

She obeys, dispatching the failure. “What of the acolyte?” All the acolytes thus far have lacked the required fortitude to be worthy of the First One; they need a subject whose heart and will are strong enough for the disciple to be blessed with a name.

En Sabah Nur deems this acolyte unsuitable. Nevertheless, they will try once more, and then they can recommence the search for his Consort.

But before they can resume their positions, there’s a distant boom, then another two in swift succession – Pestilence, sounding the alarm. They’re under attack.

“The X-Force,” Death snarls quietly. Blasphemers! Usurpers and naysayers, who claim the First One to be a false god. They fear his power, his wisdom, his desire to produce disciples who will thrive beneath his sovereignty.

“It seems my plans must be reordered,” En Sabah Nur remarks.

There’s a burst of purple light from within the corridor at the head of the stairs. Death feels Pestilence’s spirit, along with another unfamiliar one, depart for the Underworld upon them dispatching each other.

War appears in the open entranceway, his touch collapsing the innards of the X-Force warrior who charges him, shoulder and chest caving in. War runs his sword through the man for good measure.

“Protect our Lord!” Death shouts to her fellow Horsemen, even as a purple-tinted tear opens up in the air above War, as a woman drops from it to drive her own sword into his back. War’s body shrivels and withers, his internal fluids and vital organs eroding to dust as he dies. Famine raises her hands, summoning fire and hurling a stream of it towards his killer, who writhes and screams as she burns.

Death’s prepared for what she must do.

She strides purposefully around the spirit-pool, heading towards the back of the tomb, the First One matching her pace. Famine spins flames out into ribbons throughout the room, hampering the pursuit attempt by the remaining X-Force.

The pair enter the small antechamber, with the prepared sphere suspended in mid-air above the centre of the room. Death’s aware of the plinth on the far side of the room, now hosting two relics for two fallen Horsemen, but she doesn’t linger on these. Instead, she regards the stockpile of adamantium ingots stacked either side of the plinth. She has work to do.

“It is time,” the god says. “Begin the _hom-dai._ ”

Death invokes the words of the curse and lets her power flow. Her shield takes shape around him, forming a translucent barrier which will serve as the inner layer of a sarcophagus. The fighting in the tomb rages on; Famine is fading and won’t last much longer. Death summons the ingots across the room with her thoughts, casting the material around the shield, starting at the base.

There’s a burst of dark sand upon the plinth once Famine dies, and then a set of black scales sits between a white crown and a red sword.

Death throws up another shield, barring the entrance of the antechamber, and continues working. The outer layer of the sarcophagus grows; the back solidifies, then the sides. The front begins to rise, reaches the god’s chest, slowly climbs higher.

“May your resurrection be grandiose.” He is already invulnerable, but with the _hom-dai_ he shall achieve immortality. “And may your Consort be _strong._ ”

She is rewarded with a fierce grin.

The attacks on her shielding intensify.

Death raises a hand towards the sphere, positioned above the sarcophagus. The base peels open. Flesh-eaters cascade down, pouring over En Sabah Nur to fill the casket. The scarabs immediately begin to feed. The First One’s muffled screams are silenced as the last of the adamantium affixes into place and the sarcophagus is sealed.

She takes a moment to admire her success, the fruition of the god’s plan. The sarcophagus is perfect, impenetrable in all ways, other than the use of the key. The runes shine brightly where they are etched into the metal, imbued with _heka_ which shall persist even if the spells themselves are removed.

Her shield across the entryway fails and the few surviving X-Force warriors breach the antechamber. She spins around to face them.

“Death is only the beginning,” she declares.

She takes her pale scythe, and then takes her own life. Her death casts one final shield around the city, rendering it partially hidden.

<><><><><>

They entomb his sarcophagus beneath the city. They reek of fear, but also of determination – these heretics intend to guard the city across the ages, in an attempt to prevent his resurrection.

They are fools. They should fear him more.

His physical body may be consumed; his spirit bound to the Underworld; his mind untethered within the void betwixt the planes. But his _ka_ remains strong, and it shall endure eternity if needs must, until the _hom-dai_ curse is fulfilled.

And when he does arise from this undead existence, he will bring with him the strength of kings, all manner of godly plagues, the power to manipulate bodies and minds like sand, and the glory of invincibility.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Ancient Egyptian terminology:  
> AE: ‘Heka’ is the term for ‘magic’ – in this story-verse, I’ve re-attributed it to specifically refer to mutation.  
> AE: The ‘ka’ (vital essence) is one of the nine components which makes up the concept of the soul. The ‘ka’ represents the ‘metaphoric heart’ or one’s will.
> 
> I alluded to some of the other soul-components during this chapter, but they’ll be properly laid out later in the story.
> 
> -


	2. Dissonance and resonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamunaptra, over 3,000 years later. It could be said: your strength gives me strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Posting the first two chapters together, because Erik.
> 
> I love the comedic interplay between Rick and Beni in The Mummy. So naturally, I’ve ‘improved’ the situation with the unpleasant nuances of Shaw.
> 
> -

<><><><><>

The only thing Erik knows about the two armies, fighting and killing each other on the fringes of the city, is they despise contractors. All soldiers believe it’s dishonourable to be conscripted by a freelancer, instead of enlisting in a sanctioned regiment. He’s not looking forward to his inevitable role as a one-man distraction.

Maybe Shaw’s decided to have him killed after all. He’d rather Shaw plotting his death than trying to obtain an extension on his contract.

Erik shifts his gaze towards the man, currently talking through the plan with Hoefler and Wendel. They’re both listening far more attentively than they need to be, in his opinion. Shaw can never be trusted to reveal what he’s really planning. The unfortunate woman who’d drafted up Erik’s contract, years ago, was the first to teach him this – the clause to ensure Erik wasn’t allowed to kill Shaw hadn’t prevented the man from killing her afterwards.

“They say this city is packed full of treasure,” Wendel comments eagerly.

“They also say this city lies under a veil of death,” Erik remarks dryly.

Wendel glares at him. “I’m getting real sick of you mentioning that. Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. Wendel doesn’t usually risk threatening him within earshot of the other two. “Not an ideal time for a fight. Would be a shame, if you were too injured to enter the city.”

“Erik,” Hoefler chides wearily. “Stop antagonising my apprentice.” As if it’s Erik’s fault Wendel’s such an incompetent fighter he’s lost every spar they’ve had. “Heinrich. Take over from Erik, monitor the skirmish.”

Erik smirks. Wendel had mocked him the whole journey for having to be the lookout, with constant patronising reminders about how to spot the best opportunity for them to advance, and being careful not to leave it late enough a garrison starts trying to fortify their position in the city. Seems he gets to show off his expertise after all.

Wendel looks set to object, but then glances at Shaw. Whatever he sees on the man’s face has him swallowing his words. Erik moves away as Wendel takes up his position, easily dodging the elbow to his ribs.

Shaw beckons. Erik reluctantly approaches. Tries not to grimace at the arm that drapes over his shoulder. “Remember this moment, Erik.” Shaw tugs him in slightly while indicating the city. “I tell you, Hamunaptra will change our lives forever.”

“Especially if the fire-bird legends are true.” Hoefler’s attention is fixated on the city. “Knowledge is true power.”

This is the first Erik’s hearing about fire-birds. He suspects Hoefler’s just signed his own death warrant, given Shaw’s indulgent smile. “Separation clause?” Erik prompts Shaw, tone flat with boredom.

He’s contracted to return to a rendezvous point if he and Shaw are separated. The clause specifies Erik has to wait three days for further instruction. Shaw has only ever been late once – he’d found Erik six hours later, heavily implying the delay had been deliberate.

“After arrival, not separation,” Shaw clarifies, just as uninterestedly. They’ve both tried for loopholes so often these exchanges are routine. Erik sighs, which makes Shaw chuckle. “One day, I’m going to have you appreciate my generosity.”

“One day,” Erik says matter-of-factly, “I’m going to kill you.”

“Yes,” Shaw agrees, with a fondness that makes Erik’s skin crawl. “But not today. Think of poor Josef. Such a demonstration wouldn’t agree with him.”

Erik couldn’t care less about causing Hoefler distress, but Shaw’s powers aren’t to be taken lightly and he’s made Erik work jobs when injured before, so he shrugs. Besides, his contract’s only binding for two hundred and forty-seven more days. “I can be patient.”

Shaw’s response is loaded with dark promise. “So can I.”

<><><><><>

They’re just about to breach the outer limits of the city undetected, when Wendel spots a snake and panics, drawing his gun. The shot – which goes wide – gains the attention of the nearby soldiers they were hoping to avoid.

Shaw starts running, in the manner of someone who _knew_ there’d be running and was simply waiting for an excuse to start. Hoefler sets off in pursuit, with Wendel swift on his heels.

One of the soldiers raises a horn, ready to sound an alarm – Erik instinctively stretches out a hand, curls it into a fist – and the horn crumples into a ball.

_ “Mutant!” _

Erik curses the gods as he runs, then curses Shaw for good measure. He leaps over the small stone wall, weaves his way around the ruins, the soldiers not far behind him.

It occurs to him: he’d used his powers.

There must be _some_ truth to the rumours, that something about the city dampens mutant abilities, because his metal sense _is_ diluted, more indistinct than usual. And yet, the metal still responded to him. His innate awareness of the surrounding magnetic fields also seems unhindered. He’d assumed the dampening effect would be worse, given Shaw’s increasingly sly remarks about resonance during their approach.

Bullets ricochet off a nearby wall. Erik changes direction, hoping to evade the soldiers as long as possible.

He comes across the others, in time to see Shaw reach an entrance to the inner city and immediately start forcing the heavy stone door shut. Hoefler shouts in outrage as it closes; Wendel collides with the stone, the passageway now sealed shut.

“He left us,” Wendel yelps in disbelief.

Erik would laugh, if he wasn’t throwing himself behind a broken pillar to avoid the spray of gunfire. Hoefler does likewise. Wendel, exposed in the doorway, is riddled with bullets and his body falls.

Hoefler slams Erik against the pillar. “Get me into those tunnels,” he snarls, digging his fingers into Erik’s arm. “I won’t let Sebastian take this from me.”

“Back off,” Erik retorts furiously. He focuses on keeping the knife Hoefler’s trying to pull from his belt in place, the metal vibrating inside the sheathe. Hoefler steps closer to him, glaring, grip tightening.

The soldiers round the far side of the pillars, guns up. Hoefler startles. Erik takes advantage to shove him aside, raising his hands as the soldiers fire their weapons.

It’s far easier to bend magnetic fields, to deflect projectiles, than expending energy attempting to disrupt their movement. He nudges the field’s axis just enough to part the oncoming barrage, letting the bullets whizz by either side of him. Then he reaches for the rifles, wrenching the guns away from the soldiers, swinging them around to bash their owners in the head. The soldiers collapse in a heap.

Hoefler grabs him from behind, pulling him back in a stranglehold. Erik barely senses the knife come up. Habit has him moving before he’s fully registered the motion – his hands catch Hoefler’s arm, twisting as he pulls; the knife changes trajectory of its own accord, missing Erik’s throat to land in Hoefler’s instead.

Hoefler’s dead before he hits the ground.

Erik coughs, trying to catch his breath. But there’s more shouting and motion; as the hilt of the knife finds its way into his hand, more soldiers appear, these ones on horses. Erik starts running again.

<><><><><>

He gets cornered.

Erik backs up towards the statue as the horses converge in a loose arc around him. The soldiers jeer and mock before lazily taking aim with their weapons.

He’s not going to be able to deflect these bullets as he did the earlier ones, not when they’re fired from opposing angles. And he’d need a greater accuracy with his metal sense than he currently has for an attempt to halt them.

But there’s something else he could try.

He’s been making attempts at generating a magnetic barrier for years – in secret, alone, and knowing for certain Shaw wasn’t within range to detect the output of energy. He hasn’t been entirely _successful_ with these attempts, but there’s no time like the present.

Everything else seems to slow as he reaches deep within himself, except his heart rate, which begins to race. He takes his internal resonance, humming in tandem with the surrounding fields, and reverses the polarity.

He _pulls._

The fields around him repolarise, anchoring to him as their new gravitational source. The air itself trembles as he reaches out, calling to the smaller forces binding one of these larger fields together.

Then he _pushes,_ with a desperate command for realignment.

The oscillation he induces is intense enough to turn the magnetic field metallic, air molecules turning themselves inside-out like popped corn. The barrier ripples into existence just as bullets start flying.

Erik’s shaking, nerve endings shuddering with vibrations akin to electric shocks. His powers spill over, his resonance bleeding out across the city. The barrier deforms slightly under each impact, but it holds.

The soldiers cease firing. The spent bullets lie strewn on the ground where they’d landed after hitting the barrier. The low metallic ringing in Erik’s ears dwindles down. There’s a moment of sudden and unusual stillness.

Then _something_ happens. The ground shifts beneath Erik’s feet, he topples backwards but slides forwards, as a sinkhole forms between him and the soldiers; his barrier collapses, the magnetic fields reverting to their natural state as his polarity does. Erik fumbles for purchase in the sand.

The horses, already spooked, whinny loudly as they rear up. Their riders shout and cling to the reins as the animals flee.

The sinkhole is several feet wide but thankfully only half as deep, when it settles. Erik doesn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated. “Being covered in sand is better than being buried in it, I suppose,” he remarks to the jackal-headed statue of Anubis, staring down at him.

A line of sand trickles down the slight incline to his left. Erik eyes it warily, then attempts to climb back out of the sinkhole. Somehow, he gets his foot caught in the sand and tumbles back down again. He glares at the sky for a few moments before sitting up again.

Metal resonates beneath his fingers. He frowns, brushes the sand aside to find a coin, about the size of his palm. He turns it over in his hands.

It’s made of a metal he’s unfamiliar with, which makes it both remarkable and ancient – even if it doesn’t look old. There’s no sign of decay, nor any impurities. One side of the silvery metal is blank, the other features embossed symbols; a large X divides the surface into four, each section containing a different hieroglyph. Erik doesn’t know what they mean though.

He gets to his feet, tapping his thumb against the coin as he assesses the walls of the sinkhole again.

Sand wraps around his ankle, abruptly, _deliberately,_ like a hand, and tugs with enough force he almost topples over again. Erik wrenches his foot back up and practically launches himself up the side of the sinkhole.

He braces himself against the statue, tension thrumming through him. There’s no one else around, other than corpses, and he senses nothing else unusual. Maybe the sand’s cursed too.

The sinkhole sits unassumingly before him, as if it’s innocent. Erik narrows his eyes. “ _No,_ ” he informs it, aware he’s arguing with sand. Gods, he’s tired.

As if in retaliation to his refusal, a wave of sand suddenly rears up and bowls him over.

The sand is trying to eat him. Of course it is. He’s having that sort of day, apparently. Erik kicks his way free, scrambles to his feet. And _runs._

He’s probably being paranoid, thinking the sand is still reaching for him, as thin ribbons of it are blown around in the wind. But the unnerving impression doesn’t abate until he leaves the city limits. He still doesn’t stop, heading out into the desert.

When he’s far enough away from the city for his metal sense to regain its usual clarity, he slows his pace. He realises he’s still holding onto the coin. He shoves it into his pocket as a collection of distant weapons catches his attention.

There’s a small but well-armed group – mercenaries, perhaps – gathered atop one of the cliffs. Erik regards them a few moments, then dismisses them and continues walking. The sooner he gets to the rendezvous point, the less likely Shaw will have the time to catch up with him.

<><><><><>

Upon the cliff overlooking the valley, the team of X-Force fighters keep watch. Logan tells the others to ready for the pursuit, indicating the large group of surviving soldiers fleeing the city into the desert.

Irene turns her head, sightless eyes not-quite-tracking the lone straggler heading in the opposite direction. “What about _him?_ ”

“What _about_ him?”

“I cannot see him.” Irene’s talents for precognition are as restrained as everyone else’s abilities, this close to the city, but even so there are few who can escape her sight entirely. “Should we go after him too?”

Logan considers. He’s long accustomed to trusting his instincts: it’s wiser not to engage this one in a fight. “The desert will kill him.”

“Oh, really?” Wade perks up, grinning. “This seems an excellent opportunity for me to invoke the dead pool clause. You get my shiniest gun, for keeps! Unless we ever see yonder handsome again, in which case your best sword is mine.”

“Whatever, Wade. Sure.” It’s always best to agree with the man whenever he runs his mouth like this. Logan ignores the smug grin aimed at him as Wade hands his gun over. Then he rallies his team to action, leading the hunt after the soldiers.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Josef Hoefler and Heinrich Wendel are original characters – I’ve used them as sacrificial lambs before, in another fic.
> 
> No fictional snakes were harmed in the writing of this chapter.
> 
> The term for when matter transitions from gas to solid is ‘deposition.’
> 
> -


	3. The gravity of it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cairo, two hundred and sixty-two days later – two disaster siblings, six accidents, and two trinkets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> I’m so glad everyone’s loving the idea of this crossover as much as I am.
> 
> To pre-empt any confusion: the Hank McCoy in this verse is the older and wiser version played by Kelsey Grammer.
> 
> -

<><><><><>

The best feature of Cairo’s Museum of Antiquities, in Charles’s humble opinion, is its library. He’s so familiar with cataloguing its contents, he finds the act of re-shelving quite meditative.

“Sacred Stones…Sculpture and Aesthetics…”

In fact, he often uses the time to exercise his telepathy, summoning semi-autonomous psychic projections as he works. They can’t directly interact with the physical plane, but sometimes they’re strong enough to exude an echo.

“Socrates…Seth; volume one, volume two, and volume three…”

He currently has an Egyptian mongoose racing around on the floor, dashing up and down the aisles. As it leaps over a low table, the papers sitting on it are lightly disturbed as if by a mild breeze.

“Tuthmosis?” He frowns at the book, then at the bookshelf behind him, where it belongs. It’s not that far. He could probably reach it. Bracing himself against the ladder, he leans across the aisle in an attempt to put the book on the opposite shelf.

His concentration on the bookshelf unintentionally draws the mongoose over. As it sprints into the aisle, it passes clean through the base of the ladder – Charles instinctively jerks the other way, causing the very wobble he’d hoped to avoid.

He overbalances and gravity asserts itself. With a shout, he topples into the bookshelf.

The bookshelf topples over too. Crashes into the next one, which also falls. The trend continues like a domino effect around the room, until all eighteen bookshelves have been upended.

Charles picks himself up off the floor. Assesses himself first – small mercies, he’s unharmed – then fixes an accusing stare on the mongoose, which curls up contritely before it vanishes. This doesn’t help him feel any better about the state of the library though.

He’s so mortified, he doesn’t notice Doctor McCoy’s approach until the curator is right outside. In a panic, Charles starts projecting a sense that everything’s fine and there’s nothing amiss with the room.

McCoy pauses. Then says, “I can feel the book I’m stepping on, Charles.”

Sheepishly, Charles lets the misconception fade. He shrinks a little, as McCoy’s disbelief mounts in proportion to his returning awareness of the room. “I am so, so sorry. It was an accident.”

McCoy can only shake his head. “When Ramses destroyed Syria, that was an accident,” he remarks wearily. “ _You_ are a disaster. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”

“Because I can read and write ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphics and hieratic?” Charles offers. McCoy’s unimpressed. “…And because my ability to read minds comes in handy when peddlers try to cheat you on the value of their goods.” He pauses. “I _am_ sorry.”

“I know.” McCoy sighs heavily. “Just…put this room back together.”

Charles hastily assures the man he will, though he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to manage it. As he’s left alone again, the room seems to judge him. Supposing he has to start somewhere, he picks up a few books.

An indistinct noise echoes out from within the back room. Charles extends his senses and locates a mind that isn’t supposed to be there.

<><><><><>

He finds the great and powerful Cleopatra, attired in all her finery, lounging in one of the open sarcophaguses with one arm flung over her eyes. She’s lazily waving a not-so-ancient folding fan in the air above her.

“Be gone mortal,” she decrees, without bothering to look up. Each word is laden with gravitas. “Can’t you see the queen is distraught? Let me languish in peace.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Raven.”

She moves her arm aside enough to peer at him. “Oh, it’s just you.” She hums, repositions her arm. “I was hoping for a better reaction.”

He plucks the fan from her hand, closing it with a swift motion, and raps her on the head with it. “Get out of there.” She grumbles a little but complies. “And shift back. You know Doctor McCoy has rules about you impersonating pharaohs!”

Raven rubs at her head, scales shimmering as she reverts to her natural blue form and plainer clothes. “Rude. Where’s the sympathy for your favourite sister?”

He tuts at her, briefly inspecting the sarcophagus for any damage. “You’re my only sister. What has you sulking this time?”

“Languishing! I am _languishing,_ Charles!”

“ _Languishing,_ then.” Charles slants a glance at her. “Please don’t tell me you were thrown off the Thebes project.”

She pulls a face. “That’s not the point.” Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. “The point is, I was hoping for a golden statue of the gorgeous Nefertiti! What did I find instead? Shattered canopic jars and heartbreak. Utter disaster.” Raven drapes herself sideways in a chair, but her flippancy wanes as she takes in his lack of enthusiasm. “Your week not been going so well either?”

“I just made a fairly terrible mess of the library.” He grimaces, shoulders slumping. “And the Blackbridge Scholars have rejected my application form. Again.”

Raven sits bolt upright, scowling. “What!” She growls frustratedly. “And just _what_ was Kurt’s reasoning this time?”

“Not enough field experience.”

“He’s the one who keeps preventing you joining any expedition!”

Charles shrugs. Their stepfather’s head of the board at Blackbridge, none of the other scholars are going to contradict his decision. And there’s no proof Kurt was responsible for Charles’s paperwork ‘accidentally’ being misplaced by the project leader.

Raven huffs. “Well! I do have something that might cheer you up.” She twists in the chair, leaning down to fumble with her bag. She pulls something small from it, passes it to him as she sits back up. “I think it’s adamantium!”

Charles turns the coin over in his hands, tracing the hieroglyphs. “It is,” he murmurs, awed. “You recovered this?”

“Sure. Sort of. It was a bit of an accident. Didn’t realise what I had, at first.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He’s only half-listening. Adamantium was far too valuable to be used as currency; this piece, with its decorative elements, is ornamental. And yet, it still must have served some other function.

Raven peers closer. “Significant find, right?”

His fingers find a slight groove along the edge. He applies pressure, twisting the sides of the coin in opposing directions. A small slot is exposed, revealing a narrow cavity within the metal. “Yes.” There’s a piece of parchment inside. He fishes it out. “Very significant.”

<><><><><>

He sets the map down on the desk in front of Doctor McCoy. “This cartouche is the emblem of the great king, En Sabah Nur.”

McCoy’s disappointingly unphased by this. Raven, on the other hand, bounces on her heels a little. “ _The_ En Sabah Nur? The deity?”

Charles nods. “The map’s dated to a time within the height of his reign. And the hieratic, here?” He points, indicating the relevant text to McCoy. “It’s Hamunaptra.”

“Don’t be absurd,” McCoy says, frowning as Raven loudly crows the city’s name. “That city’s nothing more than a fable, used to entertain tourists, inspire treasure hunters, and deter trespassers.”

“I know the stories,” Charles replies, waving a hand. “Rumours the city was pulled from the sand by the Host of the Underworld and is cursed to give rise to the Apocalypse. But! According to my research, Hamunaptra was a _real_ city, and the king _did_ reside there.”

Raven sits herself on a large chest, crossing her legs at her ankles. She rotates the coin absently between her hands. “And in the lost city dwelled the First One, where the riches of the land were sent.” McCoy scoffs, picking up the map to examine it more closely. Raven ignores him. “The tales say there was so much treasure, the god himself carved out an underground chamber to house it all.”

Charles smiles at her. “They also say the city contained a wealth of so-called ‘forbidden’ knowledge. Most likely, the kingdom’s records about the ‘gifted,’ as they called us then. Plus, the kingdom’s documentation on adamantium.” The ancient metal isn’t only prized for its commercial value, or its near indestructibility. Supposedly, it had additional properties, which was why En Sabah Nur removed it from circulation. The mystery of what those properties might be still remains a topic of debate.

“There are many tales about the lost city,” McCoy remarks dismissively. “Each more ridiculous than the last. But that doesn’t change – by the sons of the pharaohs!” The map, alight with flame from the candle atop the desk, leaves McCoy’s hands and falls to the floor.

Raven springs to her feet, throwing herself forward as Charles does, both of them hastily patting out the flames. When the fire’s extinguished, the damage to the map becomes evident. Raven gives a wounded cry. “You burned off everything about the lost city!”

“An unfortunate mishap,” the curator says gravely. “But perhaps for the best.”

Charles looks sharply at McCoy, skimming the man’s surface thoughts, which are as unapologetic as he suspected. “You certainly think so.”

A mental wall comes up, McCoy locking his thoughts down. “Don’t read my mind, Charles.”

“An accident,” Charles replies coolly. He could press further, but he doesn’t.

McCoy’s fur bristles and he gets to his feet. “Listen to me, you two. You can’t appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

Raven’s thinking such uncharitable thoughts McCoy should be grateful she’s not the telepath. Charles doesn’t need his powers to get his displeasure across though, scowling at the curator.

“Since you enjoy the old tales so much, try this one: those who seek the god of the lost city shall lose themselves.” McCoy glares at the map and coin in Raven’s hands. “Now take your trinkets and get out of my office. I don’t want to hear another word about this foolishness.”

<><><><><>

She’s very familiar with the obstinate silence emanating from Charles. For all his civility, her brother’s a force to be reckoned with when the right circumstances strike. His expression is set with determination. Completely understandable. She’s not going to give up on the idea of Hamunaptra either.

They work together, making a start on setting the library to rights. Raven’s rather sorry she missed him causing this chaos.

“We don’t need McCoy’s backing,” Charles declares abruptly. He projects vague half-formed plans at her. “We can organise this expedition ourselves. I assume you’ve still got those submission forms you’re not supposed to have?”

She grins, picking up on the underlying ambition of this question. “I do. I can file the action tonight.” And file it in such a way it’ll get delayed in the poor intern’s backlog, so as not to hit Kurt’s desk for another month.

“I’ll talk to the harbour master. He owes me a favour. And it’ll take a few days for us to gather all the equipment we’ll need. Maybe a week.” Charles meets her gaze, faltering. “But I don’t know what we’re going to do about the map.”

She knows he’s considering whether he could reconstruct the ruined section. It’s not such a far-fetched possibility, if he’d gotten a clear enough look at it. Raven also knows they’re still going to need an experienced freelancer in their employ for the actual expedition.

Or, perhaps, a recently emancipated contractor.

Which means she’s going to have to come clean about the coin.

“Well.” She does her best not to sound guilty. “I may know a guy who can help.”

<><><><><>

“What do you mean _you stole it_ from him? _Raven!_ ”

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> The Bembridge Scholars rejected Evelyn Carnahan; Kurt Marko worked on the Black Womb Project = I give you, the Blackbridge Scholars.
> 
> -


	4. Meetings and greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contracts, oaths, and entertainment — before; now; and later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Remember the prison guard in XM2 with too much iron in his blood?
> 
> -

<><><><><>

Mitchell Laurio regards his prisoners as nothing more than sources of labour, revenue, or entertainment; his treatment of them is proportional to their capacity for fulfilling his needs. Having spent all of two minutes in his presence, Charles has already decided he doesn’t like the Warden very much.

But he’s also still miffed that Raven had lied to him. _‘I thought you weren’t frequenting the casbah anymore.’_

_‘I’m not frequenting it,’_ she argues. _‘I just…happened to be there that night.’_

Losing at dice, no doubt. Charles refrains from rolling his eyes.

They’d asked at the casbah about the former contractor, only to discover he’d been arrested shortly after Raven had left. It also turns out she doesn’t really know him personally, but rather knows _of_ him, through the rumours of the regular patrons.

Ignorant of the non-verbal exchange, Warden Laurio picks up the thread of their previous conversation. “Still don’t see why you’d bother speaking with him. You’d be much better off signing him first. If you can.”

Raven elects to ignore this latter comment. “What was he arrested for, in the end?”

Laurio chuckles as he unlocks the heavy door. “Murder.”

“…Oh.”

Charles’s brow furrows. The Warden’s being honest, but he’s also keen to discourage them from making an offer. Prisons usually offer emancipated contractors work as enforcers, signing them as fighters to earn special privileges. Laurio seems bitter about his lack of success with this one.

Beyond the door lies a room which is one-third vacant space, two-thirds cell block. The prisoner has his back to them, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his cell, assuming a meditative pose. He doesn’t react when the Warden drags his baton noisily along the steel bars. “Well, Lehnsherr?”

“No.”

Laurio scowls at the flat refusal, then consults his papers. “You had two new offers: one military, one domestic. There was also a withdrawal from the previous assortment, bringing your total to six.”

“No.”

“Anything to say other than that?” Laurio snaps.

There’s a pause, heavy with amusement. “No.”

Laurio mutters something crude under his breath. “The three freelancers have all doubled their offset rates.” Lehnsherr’s hands curl into fists, the only sign he’s heard. “Not that you care. Also, you’ve got visitors. Their offer goes into the next assortment, unless you take one of the other contracts now.”

Lehnsherr sighs and gets to his feet. Charles regards him; Lehnsherr carries anger and exhaustion on a low simmer, and yet there’s a complexity to his mind which invokes clarity. Turning to face them, his gaze settles on Raven. “Hello again. You were blonde when we…ran into each other.”

Raven startles. “You recognise me?”

“You resemble yourself enough.” He raises an eyebrow. “Which doesn’t seem a wise choice, for one so light-fingered.”

Charles picks up impressions enough from both of them to piece together what had happened. Raven had been on her way to cash out, deciding to cut her losses for the night. Lehnsherr had been on his way back from the proprietor’s office, leaving only burnt papers behind. They’d literally bumped into each other in their haste. Raven had apologised, even as she’d picked his pocket. Aware of what she was doing, Lehnsherr had allowed it. The proprietor had approached, shouting in recognition, both presuming about themselves. Lehnsherr informed Voss his contract had expired at midnight and proceeded to pick a fight with her guards. Raven had taken the opportunity to leave, shifting forms to avoid detection.

He makes a minor adjustment to his earlier assessment; Lehnsherr is also resolute. An admirable trait, in Charles’s opinion. It’s not as easy as one thinks, to make a decision and then see it through to whatever end.

“Er. Right.” Flustered, Raven reaches out and drags Charles forward. “This is my brother.”

The appraising stare shifts to him. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Charles Xavier.” He offers his most charming smile.

He senses Erik’s first impression of him – intelligent, confident, and tenacious – and is rather flattered. “Come to make her return it?” Erik’s attention flickers towards Raven’s jacket pocket, where the coin currently sits, and it takes Charles a moment to realise why.

He shakes his head, and enquires curiously, _‘do they know you’re a mutant?’_ Surely not, given the abundance of metal in here.

_‘Telepath,’_ Erik identifies almost absently. Charles is surprised by his excellent mental focus, especially when his next comment is purposefully directed. _‘Going to tell them?’_

_‘Not at all.’_ He projects his distaste for Laurio’s general manner. _‘If he’s going to mistreat you, he doesn’t deserve to know.’_

Erik’s genuinely bemused by the show of support but adds compassionate and righteous to his list of Charles’s traits. Charles finds he doesn’t like the idea that Erik considers receiving compassion to be such an outlier in his life.

Fed up with their apparent silent staring contest, Laurio interjects. “What’s it going to be, Lehnsherr? Contract, or combat?” When Erik picks the latter, the Warden departs to make the arrangements.

Raven pokes Charles’s arm. “Ask about the coin.”

“Ah,” Erik realises. “You want to know about Hamunaptra.” At their surprise, he explains, “I found it there.”

Charles and Raven exchange glances. This certainly simplifies things. “We’re hiring,” Raven says without preamble. “And we’d like to offer you a contract.”

Erik seems conflicted, gives a heavy sigh. Then says, rather defiantly, “I want full autonomy.”

“Of course,” Charles replies. When Erik’s taken aback by his easy agreement, he abruptly realises this had been a serious concern, and is swiftly outraged. “What sort of dishonourable imbeciles were your previous signatories?”

_“Charles,”_ Raven interjects.

_“Raven.”_

“Not that I disagree with you hunting down and lecturing idiots on the importance of personal responsibility. But another time, maybe?” Charles narrows his eyes at her. She sing-songs back at him, “don’t make me invoke Sekhmet.”

“Maybe you should go and draft up the contract, sister dear, in the event Erik agrees to sign with us later.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” She wiggles her fingers at Erik in farewell before leaving the room.

Charles feels he’s making a terrible impression now. “Ignore her,” he begins, but loses his train of thought at Erik’s grin.

Erik approaches the bars, sticking his arms through to lean them on the cross rail. “Have either of you ever signed a contractor before?” He still seems somewhat bewildered by the show of concern for him.

“I haven’t, no. Raven has once or twice, for security work.” She knows what the process entails.

Erik becomes interested in the metal bars, looking at them rather than him. “And do you pick fights with dishonourable imbeciles often?” His avoidance of ‘signatories’ is both deliberate and telling.

“I always win, too.”

Erik smiles. _‘I think I might believe you.’_

Charles steps closer, approaching the cell. “Does this mean you’re interested?”

“I might be. Assuming the Warden doesn’t make me fight to death, out of spite.”

“I certainly won’t allow that.” Charles drums his fingers against the bar near Erik’s arm. Laurio’s ulterior motives for signing Erik to a contract of his preference might make this trickier than he’d first thought. “How do you suggest we proceed?”

Erik stares at him. “You…want my opinion?”

“However your previous signatories may have conducted their business, in _our_ arrangement you’re nothing less than my equal.” Charles has a few choice things he’d like to say to those who have treated Erik to the contrary. He’s likely going to take the issue up with the Warden about his behaviour at some point. “Regardless of whether you choose to sign on with us or not. I give you my word, Erik. I will _never_ disrespect your autonomy.”

Erik simply looks at him for a few moments. Once deciding to take his word at face value, Erik considers the situation at hand. “The Warden’s miserly, but he can be suspicious of offers which seem too good to be true. If you’re going to negotiate with him, start small.”

“And then raise, exponentially.” Charles frowns. “That would keep you in the arena a while. How many bouts would you have to fight?”

Erik shrugs. “I can manage as many as you need.”

“No longer than you have to.” He eyes Erik shrewdly. “Give me the Warden’s tolerance, if not your own.”

There’s a thoughtful pause. “Four or five.”

“Alright. I’ll have his agreement by then.” Pensively he adds, “this would be so much easier if I just...changed his mind.” He presses a little against Erik’s mind, to indicate his meaning. He won’t, of course. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than capable of persuading him otherwise. After all, it’s standard practise for telepaths to declare whether our powers have influenced the other involved parties.” And if so, it would invalidate the contract.

Erik slants a sly glance at Charles. “‘Influencing’ their minds being the key word.” _‘But ‘reading’ their minds, merely utilizing one of your senses? There’s no rule against that.’_

“Precisely,” Charles breathes, beaming up at Erik. He’s one of the few non-psychics Charles has met who truly understands the difference between the active and passive use of a mutation – perhaps his own abilities function in a similar manner. “You’re a genius, clearly.” But more incredibly, with the exception of Raven – who grew up with him and therefore doesn’t count – Erik’s the only one not at all discomforted upon learning more about the range of Charles’s abilities. “I could kiss you.”

It’s at this point Charles suddenly notices a few rather important things; firstly, how closely the two of them are standing; secondly, Erik is quite attractive; and thirdly, Charles actually _really_ does want to kiss him.

Erik tilts his head slightly, gaze dropping to Charles’s mouth. He’s considering it.

They both startle as the door opens. Charles had been so intent on Erik he hadn’t noticed the others approaching. He steps back as Laurio re-enters, with several guards.

“Off the bars,” the Warden snaps. Erik complies, backing up as Laurio unlocks the internal cell door. “Hands.”

Erik obligingly holds them out in front of him and one of the guards binds them together with rope. Despite wincing a little as it’s pulled tight, Erik delivers his “ow” with monotone boredom. Charles bites his tongue so as not to say anything.

“Don’t want you slipping out of them again,” Laurio taunts, then gestures lazily. “Get him to the arena.” The guards are overly rough with Erik as they drag him from his cell.

_‘I’ll see you again soon,’_ Charles promises.

Erik glances back at him, smiles wryly. _‘Good luck.’_

<><><><><>

The crowd roars, prisoners and guards alike eager for the spectacle. It’s been just over a fortnight now; one would think they’d be bored with watching him fight. One of the guards prods his shoulder with their baton in warning. Erik starts down the narrow walkway towards the raised stage, sitting in the centre of the arena.

The arena itself is a near-circular space inside a ring of high-rise buildings, termed the gallery. Most of the gallery sections are barred, of course, but there are a few open balconies for the higher-ranking guards.

The Warden’s balcony is isolated, the only one in its building. Beneath it is a small platform on which the unlit brazier sits. A guard is already standing beside it, holding the flaming torch which won’t be used until the Warden signals the end of the fighting.

What Erik hadn’t told Charles is the Warden’s only conceded to give the instruction to light the brazier for _him_ twice before. Usually, they let him fight until he collapses, then drag him back to his cell.

Charles is speaking tersely with the Warden as they take their seats. Erik hums quietly to himself. It’s not that Charles had seemed insincere, it’s just...this may become the first time anyone’s given Erik their word and kept it.

He takes his position on the stage. He ignores the other arrival – though does note the crowd’s reaction isn’t as boisterous as it was for him – until Slate stands opposite him.

The enforcer grins. “Been looking forward to this.” Flexing his muscles, he adds, “which of your bones should I break first?”

Erik stares flatly at him, denying the man the reaction he wants. He hasn’t fought Slate before, but he’s seen a few of his bouts. Usually Slate only needs one blow to knock his opponent down, and they don’t get back up again afterwards. He won’t expect Erik to endure such treatment either.

“You could just surrender now,” Erik says. “Walk away, while you can.”

_This_ gets the reaction _he_ expects.

<><><><><>

It seems terribly unfair that Charles has the easier of the two jobs. He hopes Erik’s going to be okay. The enforcer is about twice his bulk.

He gives Warden Laurio his best wide-eyed, hopeful expression. “I’ll pay one month’s worth of your salary, to spare him the bouts.”

Laurio doesn’t even consider it. “I’d give up a month’s salary just to see him suffer.” He raises his voice to be heard throughout the arena. “Begin!”

Charles leans forward, watching the fight unfold with an anxiousness that’s not entirely a ruse.

<><><><><>

He and Slate circle each other. Erik’s careful to stay out of reach, ducking away from each blow. He keeps his fists close to his chest.

“Difficult, with your hands all tied up, eh, Lehnsherr?”

Erik doesn’t bother correcting the man, but this is easy. Once, Shaw had made him scale the side of a building with his hands tied _behind_ his back. Still, Slate’s overconfidence should distract him enough to let Erik pull this bait-and-switch off.

“They say you’ve got the healing touch,” Slate taunts. “Think they’ll still say it once I’ve broken _all_ your bones?”

Probably, given they say this because Erik persists in spite of his injuries, not because he recovers from them. Erik plants his feet, standing his ground as Slate advances. This time, when Slate swings his fist, Erik lets the blow land. He goes limp as he’s thrown through the air, remains limp as he hits the stage.

Slate laughs as he draws closer, boasting loudly about his inevitable victory until he’s looming over Erik. Then Slate brings his foot down hard.

But Erik’s knee isn’t there anymore – he rolls out of the way, using the motion to end up in a crouched position. Time to bring this fight to an end.

Slate barely has time to blink before Erik launches himself up. He throws his entire weight behind the leap, his hands plastering against Slate’s face, fingers spread wide. His momentum topples the man back; Erik follows the motion through to slam Slate’s head into the ground, knocking the man out cold.

“How’s _that_ for a healing touch?”

<><><><><>

Triumphant cheering erupts from the watching prisoners, which transforms into fervent chanting. _“Light the fire! Light the fire! Light the fire!”_

Charles is impressed. Not only at the physical display of talent – he tries not to linger on the concepts of _physical_ and _talent_ , now is _not_ the time – but the concentration it took Erik to execute those manoeuvres.

Erik keeps his distance from the guards who retrieve the enforcer, removing the unconscious man from the arena. “Two month’s salary,” Charles offers the Warden, who snorts. “Three months.” He has Laurio’s interest now, curious as to why he’s so invested in the welfare of a contractor. “ _Five_ months.”

The Warden doesn’t answer straight away, which drives the crowd’s chanting to grow louder. “That all?” His tone turns sly, his thoughts lecherous. “I bet your sister could make me a better offer.”

He knows Laurio’s trying to provoke him, to earn an excuse to throw Charles out. If he’s ejected, they’ll be penalised with a three-day waiting period – which Laurio seems to believe will cost them their opportunity to sign Erik.

“No, she wouldn’t,” he replies flatly. He’s not going to be provoked, but he’s not going to forget either.

Laurio scoffs, turning back towards the stage. “Again!”

<><><><><>

The second enforcer to approach is Gazelle, so called because she’s nimble, and the long curved wooden baton she favours resembles the horn of the animal.

Speed and luck will determine the outcome of this fight.

They begin their dance. Gazelle feints one way, then swings her baton the other. Erik weaves to the left, left again, then to the right. As she advances, he retreats. When she braces herself before making a heavier blow, he notices. His bound hands will mean only one chance to get this right.

He pivots on his back foot, twisting around as the baton comes down again. It slides past him, close enough for him to get his hands on it.

Gazelle’s feet are close and, fortuitously, her stance is all wrong – which makes it simple enough to use her own weight against her. Erik knocks Gazelle backwards, wrenching the baton away from her as he does. The woman staggers. Quick as a flash, Erik pivots again and slams the baton into her midsection.

Gazelle crumples to the floor, groaning, and stays there.

Erik drops the baton, letting it roll away from him. Holding onto the weapon gives the guards free reign to inflict punishment before his next fight. As the chant for the brazier starts up again, Erik tilts his head towards the balcony and glares at the Warden.

<><><><><>

The fight had been fast, the odds in Erik’s favour, which Charles had expected. What he’d _not_ expected was further demonstration on just how graceful Erik is. It takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Seven months of your salary. Plus compensation to the base value of all his existing contract offers.”

This gives Laurio pause.

_“Light the fire! Light the fire! Light the fire!”_

From what Charles can glean, the Warden’s tempted. And yet, still believes he has a better option in reserve. At least Charles now has confirmation Erik himself is not a deciding factor in Laurio’s decision. It’s almost time to show his hand.

“Again!”

Though he’d rather Erik didn’t have to continue fighting, Charles isn’t too worried yet. The next enforcer to take the stage is carrying a long dagger.

<><><><><>

Technically, he cheats.

Of all the enforcers in Cairo Prison, Daras irritates him the most. They have bouts every other day, and the man’s always obnoxiously smug whenever he manages to draw blood. He’s even visited Erik’s cell a few times, just to give an update on the tally he keeps.

Daras has no idea how outclassed he really is.

Erik’s been vigilant about using his powers for months – he hadn’t wanted to attract the wrong sort of attention. But if their scheme works, if he makes it through these fights and the Warden takes the bait, then Charles can offer him a contract immediately.

So it doesn’t matter if he starts manipulating magnetic fields again, instead of just sensing them. It doesn’t matter if he’s expending energy to move the metal. It doesn’t matter now.

_It doesn’t matter._

He’ll sign whatever Charles wants him to, even if it means going back to that accursed city.

The enforcer’s frustration mounts as the dagger continues to avoid Erik. There’s no sign he’s suspicious of the metal itself. Daras snarls as Erik easily dodges another swipe of the blade. “Hold _still,_ little thrall.”

The phrase rings in his ears.

Shaw used to call him that.

In a perfectly coordinated movement, Erik brings his hands up as the blade comes down. The dagger slices clean through his bindings, the rope falling to the floor. Ignoring the way his wrists still ache from an older remembered pain, he shoves into Daras’s space. The man’s too alarmed to notice how the dagger pulls free from his hand before Erik’s quite got physical hold of it.

Erik gets a fistful of shirt collar and stills the blade just shy of Daras’s throat.

“Surrender,” he warns.

Daras yields.

Erik doesn’t want to relinquish the dagger. But if he’s trusting Charles to do his part – and he finds he _is_ – then he’ll see this through.

<><><><><>

_“Light the fire! Light the fire! Light the fire!”_

Erik may have been overly generous with his estimate, if his abruptly mounting stress is any indication. Charles very much wants to intervene. But to do so would imply distrust in Erik’s opinion, ending their association before it has a chance to begin.

So, he waits until Laurio gives another dismissal, prompting the fourth enforcer to embark onto the stage. Then he turns to the man in what he knows will be perceived as desperation. “He knows the location to Hamunaptra.”

Laurio’s eyes widen. “This _worthless thrall_ knows how to find the lost city of riches?” This irks Charles; how can he possibly think Erik worthless? Especially given his own interest in contracting him as an enforcer? “Truly?”

“Yes!”

As predicted, Laurio’s ambition billows out. The promise of Hamunaptra is irresistible, possibly the only thing they’ve agreed on thus far.

<><><><><>

Hangman lashes his whips in alternate strokes. Erik knows he’s being driven into a corner of the stage, but he can’t stop himself flinching out of the way. Shaw’s riding crop had made a similar noise, and it was always too close to his face –

With one hand already near his face, he instinctively raises his other arm when a whip draws near on his exposed side. The cord grazes him, barely enough to sting, but the real danger follows when the other one wraps around his ankle and pulls.

Erik goes down, kicking it away as he lands. The lack of tension in the whip, and the sudden proximity of the man’s metal filling, warn him what’s coming.

He doesn’t get his hand up in time – the cord pulls taut against his throat.

He can tell by the way Hangman’s braced, he’s expecting Erik to throw his weight up-and-back. He throws it sideways-and-down instead.

They both go tumbling off the stage. The cord comes loose as they land in the dirt.

Erik’s immediate focus is getting air into his lungs. But as he shifts his weight onto his forearms, bracing to rise, there’s an unhappy, elongated hiss. His gaze flickers up to meet the wary stare of the Egyptian asp coiled a few feet away from him.

He keeps perfectly still. While snakes generally don’t attack unless threatened, his general presence can be quite threatening. But as it regards him, it appears to deem him tolerable, much to his relief.

Hangman shouts and lunges for his whip. The asp strikes, faster and more accurately. Erik cautiously retreats, with Hangman twitching and screaming as the asp slithers away.

<><><><><>

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off Erik as he offers Laurio his share. “Ten percent.”

The Warden’s quick to counter. “Sixty percent.”

“Twenty.”

“Fifty.”

Charles keeps his inflection the same – “forty” – hoping their speedy exchange means Laurio will miss the switch.

He does. “Thirty.”

Charles grins, finally turning to look at him. “Deal.”

Begrudging realisation crosses the man’s expression. He grunts irritability. “Light the fire!”

The arena erupts into raucous cheers as the brazier is lit, the enthusiasm of the prisoners far outnumbering the disgruntled moods of the guards and enforcers. Erik, leaning back against the stage, slides down it until he’s sitting in the dirt.

As Charles gets to his feet, Erik looks up to catch his gaze and smiles. Despite the distance between them and the noise of the arena, his mental voice carries across clearly. _‘So…when can I sign?’_

Charles can’t help but preen a little.

<><><><><>

He’s escorted to the Warden’s office, where Laurio, both siblings, and Hassan, Cairo Prison’s affirmer, are waiting.

“Well _those_ are hardly necessary,” Charles says the moment he sees the shackles.

“I’m not removing them,” Laurio huffs as the guard shoves Erik to sit in the vacant chair.

Erik couldn’t have asked for a better excuse. “Allow me then.” He leaves the manacles around his wrists, but breaks open every chain link simultaneously, folding the metal together to form a small sphere. He takes great pleasure in the way the prison staff choke on their alarm as he levitates the sphere above his palm before flicking it to roll onto the table.

_‘That’s incredibly fine control.’_ Charles approaches, asking aloud, “are you injured at all? You took a bit of a battering.” He frowns at the raised welt on Erik’s arm from Hangman’s whip. _‘May I?’_

Erik offers him arm. “Always do.” It’s usually a lot worse. “It’s fine.” And it’s nothing compared to what he endured under his last signatory.

He doesn’t mean for Charles to overhear what isn’t said, but physical contact must enhance telepathy because Charles stills. Then there’s a hushed silence that reminds Erik of a distant thunderstorm.

Charles smiles at the guard in a cordial way that does nothing to detract from the crackling disapproval he’s now radiating on Erik’s behalf. “Medical supplies would be appreciated.” To the Warden, he adds, “it’s only fair you ensure my contractor’s fit to sign, hmm?”

Laurio grunts but nods at the guard, who leaves. Charles removes his hands, and Erik finds he’d rather them back.

Raven leans forward, nudging some papers towards him. “Here’s the base contract.”

Erik reads it over. It’s shorter than he was expecting and fairly simple; escort them to the ‘aforementioned city,’ assist with their archaeological endeavours whilst there, and escort them back to Cairo, upon which their return marks the conclusion to the contract. He notes Raven’s put her brother down as the signatory. Though it probably doesn’t matter too much which of them he swears his oath to, he’s pleased it’ll be Charles.

“Acceptable,” he confirms. “Additional clauses?”

“We can include one about my powers,” Charles suggests. “Forbidding me from using them to read your mind.”

Enjoying the indignant expression on Laurio’s face upon realizing they’d played him, it takes Erik a moment to process the offer. “What? That’s absurd. You shouldn’t have to stifle your abilities.” Why is he suggesting a clause detrimental to himself anyway? “Whose idea was _that?_ They’re an idiot.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Brimming with approval, Raven points at him. “And _please,_ I will _pay_ you to say that to Kurt’s face.”

Charles is smiling. “Well alright. If you’re sure.”

Hassan breaks his silence. “On the topic of powers, given Lehnsherr’s mutation” – Hassan glowers in his direction at this – “and his record, I’d recommend the highest tier of discipline clauses. Lashings, brandings, mutilations; always reliable forms of recompense upon mutant contractors. Depending on the precise nature of his abilities; heat, ice, or shock treatments also make effective deterrents. We’ve a selection of implements we can offer to get you started, for no expense.”

Both siblings are aghast. Erik’s quietly relieved, though he’d have understood if they’d felt the need to take some precautions.

“No,” Charles says, and there’s steel threaded into his calmly enunciated words. “There will be no discipline clauses of any sort. Forget you even suggested them.”

And Hassan – who’s reputed to peddle as many of those clauses as he can – drops the matter. As if he’s literally forgotten. Erik’s somewhat awestruck, by Charles abilities, but also that he’d use them in such a way for Erik’s benefit.

The Warden doesn’t notice Hassan’s odd behaviour; he’s too busy staring at the siblings like they’ve lost all their wits. “How do you expect to ensure his cooperation without discipline clauses?”

“Ask politely,” Charles retorts. “It’s called common decency.”

Charles had kept his word. And so, because Erik trusts him to continue keeping it, he makes a concession. “You can add a clause for a command word.” Invoking it grants unquestionable authority. “I’d have to heed it.” It had been the one thing he’d prevented Shaw working into their contract, though the man had tried several times.

“Only on the condition that you also get a control word.” Which Erik can invoke for unconditional deference. He was not expecting to receive this privilege in return.

“Whose word takes precedence?” Raven asks. When everyone looks to her, she shrugs. “In case you both invoke them over the same thing.”

“Erik’s,” Charles says immediately.

Erik wonders if Charles would still like to kiss him, because the idea is becoming more and more appealing. They designate their respective words – _‘sia’_ for Charles and ‘brimstone’ for Erik – which are dutifully recorded by Hassan.

“Can’t think of anything else,” Raven asserts, and Charles concurs.

Hassan begrudgingly presents them with the remaining paperwork. Charles checks the addendum, then signs both it and the contract. Erik does likewise. Hassan signs his verification as the affirmer, inscribing the dual-shen glyph, then recites the words of the oath.

Erik accepts the letter knife far more amicably than the last time he’d done this, then makes the shallow incision on his palm. Charles mirrors him; they press their bloodied hands together as they swear their oaths.

The inked dual-shen glyph has turned golden, confirming the contract is now binding.

<><><><><>

Giza port is a teeming flurry of activity. Hefting the straps of his duffle bag to sit more securely on his shoulder, Erik makes his way towards where their ship is docked. It doesn’t take long for him to sense the familiar disc of adamantium, still in Raven’s possession.

He spots her first, arms folded and in mid-disagreement with the Warden. Neither of them notices his approach, but Charles does. The double-take and once-over he receives makes his heart skip a beat.

“He’s not your prisoner anymore,” Raven snaps.

Laurio scoffs. “He’s a thrall. He can’t be trusted with the freedoms you’ve granted him.”

“Shame, Warden,” Erik remarks lowly. “And here I thought we’d been getting along.”

Raven and Laurio startle, turning to stare at him, while Charles projects his amusement. Laurio recovers enough to glare. “Your claims about being able to find the city better be true, Lehnsherr.”

“I signed, didn’t I?”

This reminder only serves to irritate the Warden further. “I’m holding you personally responsible for my investment. You better not disappoint.”

Erik smirks. “ _Charles_ holds my contract. Not you. I’m _his_ responsibility now.”

“And _I’d_ be very disappointed if anything happens to him,” Charles readily contributes. Laurio’s face is getting redder by the moment. “Enough to be compensated, oh, I don’t know, say by a _thirty_ percent offset on his contract?”

Glowering, Laurio grabs hold of his bag and storms off to board the ship.

“Ugh, I hate him,” Raven complains. “I don’t see why we have to let him come along.”

Charles sighs. “If he stays behind, chances are he’ll talk.”

“So wipe his memories then!”

Erik blinks. “You can do that too?”

Charles looks a little abashed. “Well, yes. But it’s not without its own problems – which you know,” he directs pointedly at Raven, who sticks her tongue out. “The memory isn’t the difficult part; the perception of the missing memory is.” He bites his lip. “Most people find my ability to do so unnerving,” he adds apologetically.

Erik shakes his head. Any mutation can be used in an unnerving way, if a mutant so chooses. “I find it...intriguing.” Charles’s description invokes a sense of delicacy. _‘Hammer and chisel, rather than a crowbar?’_

Charles lights up at the comparison. _‘That’s not usually the reaction I inspire, but I appreciate it.’_ He smiles warmly; Erik certainly feels warm. To Raven, Charles says, “he may be an unpleasant fellow, but he’s predictable. He cares more about lining his pockets than engaging with any of us.”

With a wicked smile, she pulls out a wad of cash. “Well there’s plenty more room in his pockets now than there was this morning.” Charles makes a valiant attempt to hide his smile but doesn’t quite manage it.

Erik laughs. She’s skilled – the Warden’s a difficult man to part from his money. “I’d say he deserves it, but then I wonder what that says about me.” With a crook of his finger, the adamantium coin slips from her pocket and rises to float in the air in front of her.

She grins sheepishly. “You were good fortune. Laurio is petty spite. And, uh, I hope you’ve no hard feelings about that?” Her smile softens into something more relaxed when he shakes his head. “Still, we’re teammates now. Did you want your coin back?”

He considers. “You can keep it.” He drops it carefully into her outstretched hand, then looks to the ship. “Shall I get your bags?” They lift themselves up off the ground, via their metal fixtures and contents, and float in his wake as his heads up the gangway.

<><><><><>

Raven loves people watching. In part, because it’s second nature to her – as a shapeshifter, she’s always aware of how people carry themselves physically. To _inhabit_ a form she takes always makes her more convincing than merely assuming it. But mostly, because some people are really pretty. Simple aesthetics are important too.

“Well,” she remarks once Erik’s out of sight. She sighs a little, in wistful appreciation.

“No,” Charles says immediately.

Raven’s overcome with an unholy amount of glee. Her brother’s never shut her down so quickly before. She feigns innocence. “What? That jacket suits him better than his prison outfit, don’t you think?”

She feels Charles’s narrowed gaze on her face. “You are _not_ to regard Erik as a muse, of any sort.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Charles doesn’t respond. Aloud. But he unintentionally broadcasts his answer. _‘Because he’s mine.’_

She can’t suppress her grin any longer. “Oh, brother dear.” Her grin widens as he flushes. “My a- _muse_ -ment at both of you will work just as well, I’m sure. Let me know if you want any advice!” Not that he’ll need help.

Charles turns on his heel, pretending to ignore her as he walks away.

_‘If it makes you feel better, he’s definitely already interested in you!’_ And she laughs when her brother almost upsets someone’s luggage amidst the distraction this causes him.

<><><><><>

As night settles in, she heads out onto the deck in search of some entertainment. A small group of passengers are setting up for a game of cards and extend an offer for her to join them.

“Come on, Warren, cut the deck already.”

“You want to shuffle them, Betsy? Be my guest.”

Raven, leaning back in her chair, catches sight of Erik and waves. He heads towards them. “Hey Erik. Fancy some poker? Still room at the table.”

“Not my preferred game,” he remarks, declining. “Besides, I tend to gamble my life enough as it is. I’m sure the money’s best left in your capable hands.” They share a knowing grin.

“Perhaps a different sort of wager,” Stryker suggests, peering intently at Erik over the top of his glasses. “Five hundred gold pieces to whichever of our teams gets to Hamunaptra first.”

The glance she and Erik share this time is of resigned validation. Seems Charles had been right; Laurio had wasted no time in telling tales. “I’m in, if you are,” she says.

Erik’s grin is friendly while aimed at her; when he turns it on Stryker it gains a sharper edge. “Challenge accepted. Try not to take it too badly, when you find us more formidable than you expected.” Turning back to her, he says, “speaking of formidable forces, I was looking for Charles.”

Oh, really? Smiling, Raven props her chin on her hand. “Knowing my brother, reading. Try the starboard side.”

Erik thanks her. “Enjoy the game. Shout if you need me to start another fight.” Raven almost snorts her drink out of her nose. He thumps her on the back before he leaves.

Warren finishes dealing the cards. “I do love a good race.” Then he complains about being forced to play the first blind, opening the round.

Raven learns plenty about the rival archaeologists as the game unfolds. Perhaps more than they might expect her to. Charles may read minds, but she has a knack for tells.

All four of them had been working out of Alkali Lake before embarking on this expedition. Raven’s familiar with the restoration project; an assortment of sub-divisions, each with long-term assignments. It’s difficult to reserve enough funds to take a leave of absence, let alone amass the backing needed for a private expedition.

“So, you’re the _girl_ who was pulled from the project roster before you’d even been deployed to the site,” Kelly remarks as he thumbs over his cards. “Maybe you should consider whether you’re actually cut out for this life.”

Robert Kelly, Egyptologist and appraiser, has spent years cataloguing antiquities according to their historical and commercial value. He believes knowledge is an earned privilege to be hoarded by the worthy, and not a gift to be shared freely.

“I manage just fine,” Raven replies airily as Kelly calls the bet. She looks forward to demonstrating her worth during the game, as a card shark if nothing else.

Kelly also insists academic achievement is the sole path to true wisdom. As such, he’s vain about his PhD. He also dislikes freelancers and, by association, their contractors. “Present company excluded, of course.” The tone of this disclaimer suggests he uses it often, as does the way Betsy and Warren dismiss him.

Kelly’s expression sours when Raven casually mentions her brother has several PhDs too.

Stryker’s lip curls infinitesimally when he views his new hand. “And I raise you double.”

William Stryker used to serve as the commander of a garrison, before the military issued him a dishonourable discharge. Related to this is his opinion of collateral damage as a viable strategy.

“Well, if you’ll shoot first, ask questions later,” Kelly comments as Warren reveals his four-of-a-kind, beating Stryker’s full house.

Stryker’s passion for weapons have earned him quite the artillery over the years. He particularly favours his 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, and his six-cylinder double-action revolver.

Betsy folds again. “Can’t wait to see what sort of treasure’s tucked away in that city.” When she raises her beer, Raven taps hers against it in solidarity.

Freelancer and treasure hunter, Elizabeth Braddock has established herself quite the communications network. She’s familiar with Erik’s name and reputation, and though she’s never met him before now, she respects his skill. Betsy invented a colour-coded system to rank contractors according to their capabilities, which is now informally used by most other freelancers.

Erik is magenta. Warren was bone.

“I _knew_ you were bluffing,” Warren grouses as Betsy takes the current pot, despite only holding a flush. “My _blood_ and _sweat_ went into –”

“– the effort, and are you appreciated? No.” She laughs. “I know, I know. Next time, Angel.”

Betsy and Warren have worked a few jobs together before. Where she calls him Angel for his large and glossy white wings, he calls her Psylocke for the small psionic knives she can produce.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Kelly? It’s Warren. Mr Worthington’s my father.”

Raven empathises. Kurt has suggested she and Charles adopt the Marko name exactly once. She’s still not sure what Charles did to subsequently render the topic taboo for the man.

Warren is an ex-contractor, turned prisoner, turned enforcer, since emancipated again. He’d joined the expedition team through Betsy, though she’s not signed him on this occasion. He prefers the temporary unemployment to the prison system. Contractors don’t usually remain imprisoned very long, as they often sign one of their first offers; enforcers are usually pitted against those without any current offers. Erik’s circumstances were more the exception.

“Sorry to disappoint, folks.” Raven lays her cards down on the table. With the queen of spades, she’s achieved a royal flush. “Looks like I win.” She gathers her winnings.

“Good game,” Betsy compliments her. “But we’ll see who does better in our race to the city.”

Raven laughs, getting to her feet. “Best start counting out your gold now.” She winks.

<><><><><>

He doesn’t look up from his book until the duffel hits the floor beside the table with a heavy thump. He smiles as Erik slides into the seat opposite him. “Is there anything in there besides weapons?”

“Sure.” Erik pauses. “Do you play chess?”

They set up the board, which turns out to be the _only_ thing in Erik’s bag which isn’t a weapon. Charles plays white, makes the first move. “You weren’t particularly enthused about the idea of returning to Hamunaptra.”

Erik shakes his head, shifts a pawn. “Didn’t exactly enjoy myself last time.” His thoughts carry impressions of an aura of menace, an evil seeped into the sand itself. “The city’s cursed, you know.”

A white knight emerges from the ranks. “To weaken mutants, hamper their abilities, or so I’ve heard. Did yours suffer much at the time?” Erik shrugs, his opinion ambiguous. “I always figured there’d likely be some form of subversion effect, if only to explain how the city remained hidden for so long.”

“It doesn’t worry you at all?” Erik deliberates between two pieces, selects his rook.

“Not particularly. ‘Cursed’ is a word overused in mythology to explain any number of powers and mutations which were misunderstood. Perhaps some are genuine, their effects continuing to linger for a few passing years, but most are misreported phenomena.” Charles uses his bishop to lay a trap, which will come into play several moves later. “And I’m not exactly helpless, myself.” _‘It’s hardly arrogant to claim my abilities as both strong and nuanced, if it’s true.’_ “What’s stronger than one’s will? You’re living proof of that, my friend.”

Erik smiles. He captures one of Charles’s pawns, uses it to gesture at him. “Why’s the city so important to you anyway?”

“Well. I _am_ a librarian. And it’s believed that one of the most famous books in history was kept there.” His queen crosses the board. “The Book of Amun-Ra.”

“The one made of gold?”

Charles is delighted. “You know the mythology?”

Erik shrugs, smiling wryly. “I know metals.” Springing the trap, he loses his knight to Charles’s bishop. “Though I’ve been told it’s an instrument of powers unseen.”

“It contains the ancient incantations of the Old Kingdom,” Charles elaborates. “Many academics have written dissertations on the significance of the relationship between the oaths and the _heka_ — a mutant’s gift — in ancient times.”

“Like with the affirmers? Check, by the way.” Erik is an excellent strategist. Charles hasn’t had an opponent this talented in years, and certainly hasn’t enjoyed a game this much before.

“Yes, exactly. Affirmation abilities are a uniquely Egyptian strain, manifesting identically within bloodlines. Affirmers can trace their lineage all the way back to families of the Old Kingdom!” Charles sacrifices one of his pawns. “Some scholars think the gold book was merely symbolic, a myth, like Hamunaptra itself.” But if they’re wrong on one count, it’s probable they’re wrong on both. “Or they theorise it was compiled by some of the very first affirmers, rather than literally created by the gods. Regardless, I’d love to learn more about it. And _finding_ it? Would be fulfilling a life’s pursuit, you could say.” He realises he’s rambling and sheepishly continues with, “I do love books. Raven says I’m besotted with them.” Then again, Raven romanticises treasure and glory, so she’s hardly in a position to judge.

“Besotted is a good look on you,” Erik murmurs as he removes Charles’s queen from play. Then announces, “checkmate in five.”

Charles straightens, stares at the board. Oh! And it was so elegantly done. A thrill runs up his spine. “You are a dangerous man, Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Yes, I am.” He pauses, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. “You haven’t asked. About my record.”

It’s not important, unless Erik wants to talk about it – in which case, he will when he’s ready to. Charles touches the back of Erik’s hand. “You’re also a good man.”

Erik’s stunned by the compliment; his attention drawn by the touch. “You sound confident about that.”

“I am.” He topples his king with his free hand. “You know...” he adjusts his grip so he’s holding Erik’s hand instead. “I thought you were going to kiss me, before.” He lingers on the memory; they’d been standing so close, despite the prison cell bars between them.

Erik’s pulse quickens beneath his touch. “Did you want me to?”

“Perhaps.” Charles smiles, deliberately coy.

This earns him the same considering look as before. “And do you still want me to? Now?”

Charles leans forward slightly, is exhilarated when Erik mirrors him. Then he pulls back and get to his feet, grinning. “Maybe later.” He squeezes Erik’s hand before letting go. He has to put his hands in his pockets to resist reaching out again.

He doesn’t miss the way Erik flexes his fingers out as he leans back in his chair. “Later, then.”

It’s hard to look away from Erik’s smile; Charles back-steps a couple of times before he commits to pivoting around and walking away. He turns into a corridor, heading for his quarters.

<><><><><>

Besotted. It’s a good word. A very apt descriptor for how he’s feeling right now.

Erik grins to himself, touching his fingers to the back of his hand, curling them around, then turning his hands over so he’s cradling one in the other. He wonders, would Charles kiss in the same manner as he offers touches – generously and with purpose. The anticipation of finding out, _later,_ is a pleasant feeling.

A hand falls onto his shoulder.

“That was a very charming scene,” Sebastian Shaw says.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Egyptian deities:  
> ED: Sekhmet is the lioness warrior of protection and healing. Her name means ‘powerful or mighty;’ and she was also given the title of ‘the one before whom evil trembles.’ {Raven is not necessarily referring to the goddess herself with this name drop…*winks*}  
> ED: Sia is the deity of perception. The god was closely connected with the deity of Heka (magic). The hieroglyph for Sia is comprised of [N39 & A2], and was also used to represent “to perceive, to know, to be cognizant.”  
> ED: The meaning of ‘Amun’ was akin to ‘hidden/invisible.’
> 
> Egyptian Hieroglyphs [as per Gardiner’s Sign List]  
> EH: [N39] ‘Pool of water’  
> EH: [A2] ‘Man with hand to mouth’  
> EH: [S23] ‘Two whips with Shen ring’ – used to represent “to unite” {the dual-shen glyph used by affirmers on contracts}
> 
> “Daras” is Arabic for ‘lesson.’
> 
> “Remember! Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!” – Madame Giry, The Phantom of the Opera. This was to prevent strangulation by the Punjab Lasso, which functions as a Hangman’s noose does. A raised hand means it gets caught inside the noose, allowing one to pull it loose.
> 
> I always assumed Egyptian asps were their own species of snake. I subsequently discovered while writing this chapter this is not the case: the term ‘asp’ was an ancient epithet for ‘viper,’ and it’s believed to have actually been applied to the Egyptian Cobra. (I’m not saying I had a mild crisis about my whole life being a lie, but I am saying Egyptian asps are their own species in this story-verse.) Also, its potent venom was used to execute criminals.
> 
> Side-note: snakes are venomous, NOT poisonous. This has been a public service announcement.
> 
> Egyptian slaves were often ‘bound for life,’ though this didn’t necessarily mean to the same owner. The more troublesome bonded labourers were often sold with taming sticks, rope, or cord, since corporal punishment was commonly practised.
> 
> ‘Brimstone’ (or ‘burning stone’) was the common term for sulphur in ancient times. Sulphur is an essential element for all living organisms; it’s also non-metallic.
> 
> -


	5. Denial is a river in Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks to me like everything is on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> If you didn’t read the chapter summary in a childish, sing-song manner, please do so.
> 
> -

<><><><><>

“I thought he was going to kiss you,” Shaw comments. His grip tightens, fingers digging into Erik’s shoulder. “I wonder if you’d have enjoyed that.”

Horror freezes him perfectly still for several long moments. When he does jolt out of his chair, he knows the only reason he doesn’t dislocate his shoulder is because Shaw _allows_ him to move. Erik whirls around, pulling his gun from his holster and aiming it at Shaw’s chest. How long had the man been watching them?

Shaw’s delight is a terrible parody compared with Charles’s earlier enthusiasm. “It’s so good to see you again.”

The gun remains steady in spite of his trembling. “I think I’ll kill you.”

Shaw chuckles, unconcerned. “Really, Erik. What would your children think?”

“…I don’t have any children.”

“Your new friends then.” Shaw plucks a pawn from the chess board, examines it. “Charles Xavier. And his sister, Raven. Tell me, Erik, do you like them?”

The harmless lilt to this question terrifies him. Reluctantly, Erik lowers his weapon. Trying to shoot Shaw won’t do much good anyway, but re-holstering still feels like surrender. “You’ve got some new friends too, I see. I assume you’re backing the other expedition team.”

“The Lakers? Yes. An enthusiastic lot, aren’t they?”

Erik clenches his fists. “And what’s in it for you? Death or compensation?”

“Your suspicion wounds me, dear boy. We can learn so much from the past.” Shaw curls his hand around the chess piece, almost disinterestedly. When he re-opens his hand, the pawn’s been near flattened. He tilts his palm and it drops to the floor. “Furthering the cause of historical enrichment is its own reward.”

“Really,” Erik deadpans.

Shaw hums. “Sometimes the situation can benefit from a little extra help.” Levity is abandoned for sudden, intense scrutiny. “But then, good help is often so hard to come by.” The obvious appreciation makes Erik shudder. “Don’t you think so, my little thrall?”

_“Don’t call me that!”_ Erik snarls.

Shaw’s smile vanishes. Before Erik can move out of range, Shaw’s seized his wrist. “ _My little thrall,_ ” he insists. “And by the might of Ahmanet, you will be. One day.”

Disowned from the line of succession, Princess Ahmanet was the most infamous freelancer in history. It’s said she enthralled her contractor to such an extent, her beloved existed for nothing other than to be commanded by his mistress. Most suspect she had psychic abilities, allowing her to remake her thrall as she pleased. Some, like Shaw, prefer the theory all she had was a strong will and a command word, because that meant _any_ signatory could achieve what she had.

The implication still terrifies him, and Shaw’s hold is still as unbreakable as ever. “I’m not your contractor anymore,” Erik retorts, struggling to keep calm even as he continues trying to pull away. It was always too much to hope for, that signing with someone else would make Shaw leave him alone. “I’ll _never_ be bound to you again.”

Shaw grins. “Never say never.” He steps forward, Erik steps back. Shaw clucks his tongue, then sighs fondly. “Ah, I’ve missed this.”

Erik seriously considers the benefits of breaking his wrist to get free. “You _were_ one of the freelancers bidding for my contract then.” Shaw neither confirms nor denies this. _“Let me go.”_

Shaw does, smiling indulgently. “Of course. All you had to do was ask.”

His wrist _burns._ The man is a _liar._

Erik summons his duffel, pulling the metal towards him, deliberately clipping Shaw’s arm with it on the way past. The man offers no comment on this, nor on Erik storming off. He’s relieved Shaw doesn’t attempt to follow him either, as he makes for the rear of the ship.

This cannot be a coincidence, Shaw’s expedition so conveniently timed to run simultaneously with theirs. Had someone at the casbah contacted Shaw, when he was arrested? Or has Shaw been tracking him the entire time? But if so, he doesn’t understand why the man waited until _after_ his contract expired before revealing himself.

Erik grips the railing, stares at the decking without really seeing it, and tries to breathe.

He’ll have to warn Charles and Raven about Shaw.

Maybe he could’ve called Charles. He’s so used to dealing with everything alone, it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask for help. He’ll try to remember, for next time. Because there’s bound to be a next time.

There’s water on the deck, he notices suddenly. Footprints. They’ve been boarded.

<><><><><>

He tells himself not to get carried away, to start wildly fantasising, as if he has no self-control.

He fails.

When they’d sworn their oaths, Erik had been focused on their hands, aware of the points of contact between them to the exclusion of almost everything else. Charles imagines, if he’d leaned further forwards instead of back, how Erik may have applied such focus to kissing him.

Charles lets the daydream play out as he absently sorts through the collection of books he’d bought along. He imagines offering to loan Erik one, if he was interested in learning more about the history of the gifted, inviting him to come back to fetch it. Erik would linger, so Charles would pour them a drink, start a conversation. He wants to know about Erik learning to play chess, to listen to him talk about metals and his mutation.

As he thinks about kissing Erik again, he misjudges how much room there is on the table – when he shifts a book to make room for another, it pushes one on the other side too far, causing it to fall off. Charles sighs, leans down to retrieve it.

It’s not easy for anyone to sneak up on him. Which is why he’s quite alarmed when he straightens to find an unfamiliar man sitting on the couch, lazily twirling a curved knife.

“Good evening,” Charles says civilly, tucking the book against his chest.

The intruder also maintains a polite façade. “Nice night out.” He gestures to one of the windows, the previously bolted shutters now open, indicating how he’d gotten in.

“Yes, indeed.” Charles reaches for the man’s mind – “Wade, is it?” – but his mind isn’t all together there. He’s currently thinking about textile colours and mouldy bread, rather than being engaged with his surroundings.

“That’s me.”

The mental disengagement is actually somewhat interesting, from an academic point of view – but is cause for concern in the present situation. If there’s a big enough disconnect between Wade’s state of mind and his physical activity, Charles’s usual tactics of subtle mental influences won’t do much good.

“I was just about to make some tea. Would you care for some?”

“After all the paddling I had to do, rowing up the river to catch up to the ship, that _would_ be nice.” But Wade shakes his head. “Alas, business comes first.” The knife stops spinning, the point coming to rest on Wade’s knee. The man’s demeanour shifts, instantly turning cold. “Give me the map.”

Charles fidgets with his book, as though he’s nervous. “Alright.” They don’t really need it anymore, not when Erik knows the way. “It’s there, on the table. Here, let me.” He takes half a step forward.

“Nuh-uh-uh.” Wade gets to his feet, pointing the knife at Charles for emphasis. “Back.”

Charles backs up, continuing at Wade’s gesturing until he’s up against the wall. It’s difficult to tell, given Wade’s now pondering why matches are used to light candles and not the other way around, but from what Charles _can_ sense, the man harbours no violent intentions towards him yet.

_‘Raven.’_ She’s within his range, he feels her take notice. _‘We’ve got company. Be careful.’_

Wade tucks the map into his inner pocket, then starts spinning his knife again. His thoughts abruptly shift from a song about camels to a missing key. “Why don’t more people offer me tea when I’m trying to kill them? It’s not fair.”

“Probably because you’re trying to kill them.” Charles considers how to deal with the man.

Wade nods sagely. “Yeah, probably.” He’s still preoccupied by the key, which is missing because it’s a-key-which-isn’t-a-key, apparently. “Anything specific you want me to mention when I give you last rites?”

The door’s flung open; Erik bursts in, gun in one hand and a dagger in the other. “Charles!”

Wade lights up at the sight of him. “Well, hello, handsome!”

Charles decides that sometimes a more direct approach is needed. But before he does anything, there’s a spike of murderous intent nearby. _‘Window!’_

Erik pivots in that direction at the warning, already firing when the marksman appears. Erik’s shot hits dead centre and the gunman falls.

“Eh, never did like Zero all that much.” And then Wade throws his knife at Erik’s back.

Erik’s already turning, hand spread, as Charles shouts his name. With a full-bodied sweep of his arm, he alters the knife’s trajectory. It embeds itself into the wall. Wade’s shout sounds more impressed than anything else, but he still pulls out another knife.

Charles drops his book and sets his fingers to his temple, focusing the telepathic energy he’s been amassing since he’d noticed the man. Then he propels it forward. The force of the barely visible astral wave hurls Wade across the room; the mind recoiling, and the body pulled along for the ride. Wade hits the wall, crumples to the ground.

Charles squints amidst his sudden headache. He hates doing that.

“Charles,” Erik calls again, low and urgent this time, reaching for his arm. Charles grabs his hand instead, and they race out into the corridor.

<><><><><>

He whistles a low tune to himself as he strolls along. It’s been so many months since he’s seen Erik – to speak with him, touch him, observe his powers at work, was as satisfying as always. Though seeing Erik so… _friendly_ with his new signatory had been an unexpected development. If Shaw was a less patient man, Charles may have ended up at the bottom of the Nile.

“‘River, oh river, flow gently for me.’” He doesn’t quite sing the words of the lullaby, rather turns them into more of a rhythmic chant. “‘Such precious cargo you bear. Do you know somewhere he can be free? River, deliver him there.’”

All things come to those who wait. And they’re only just getting started with this little adventure.

Shaw passes an alcove with a window and a newcomer who has clearly just embarked through it. The cloaked woman whirls around, gun raised and aimed at his chest.

“Please do,” he taunts.

She fires.

The bullet strikes his chest but doesn’t penetrate – the kinetic energy rolls through him in waves, while the bullet itself falls harmlessly to the floor. The woman stares uncomprehendingly. Shaw touches his chest then flexes his hand, pleased by the energy transfer.

Such a shame Erik hadn’t tried to shoot him earlier; he’d liked to have made his thrall struggle a little longer. Maybe given him a refresher on physics. Personally, Shaw’s always been fond of the three laws of motion. The first: every body remains at rest unless a force acts on it. The second: motion is proportional and directional, according to the applied force. And the third: every action results in an opposite reaction of equal force.

Recovering from her surprise, the woman pulls out a stick of dynamite. Shaw smiles and does nothing. She lights it, hurls it at him. It detonates right in front of him. He catches the explosion as it billows out, controls the momentum by transforming it – he becomes a conduit for the force generated by the heat and pressure, absorbing the expended energy.

The panicked human tries to flee. He pursues her with the speed of a bullet, swiftly catching her by the arms.

Harnessing the kinetic force, he takes a portion of the energy he’d absorbed and unleashes it back upon her. She doesn’t even have time to scream as the blaze consumes her entire body, turning her to dust.

Shaw brushes his hands off against each other, then his shirt. As he continues down the corridor, he switches to a new tune, this one with more bite.

“‘By the might of Horus, you will kneel before us; kneel to our splendorous power.” His fingers glow with residual energy, waiting to be released. “You put up a front, you put up a fight; and just to show we feel no spite: you can be our acolyte!” Shaw grins. “But first, boy, it's time to bow.’”

Such an excellent evening it’s turning out to be.

<><><><><>

The ship had been overrun mere moments after her brother’s warning. She’d been making her way to his room when she’d received the impression Erik had joined him. Now she can’t hear Charles at all – she assumes he’s launched an astral attack of sorts.

On the assumption they’re both fine, Raven figures they’ll be heading for the main deck, so she runs towards the adjoining corridor.

As she rounds the corner, she collides with someone else coming the other way. They both end up sprawled on the floor in the middle of the junction. Her winnings spill everywhere and her adamantium coin lands with a thud.

“Well, wrap me up, deep-fry me, and call me a chimichanga.”

The man’s a member of the boarding party – he’s wearing the same dark cloak the rest of them have on, with the golden fastening shaped like an X. He pushes himself up, twirls his knife one revolution as if in victory, and then reaches for the coin.

Raven kicks her heel out, clipping the coin and sending it skidding across the hall. It bumps into the opposing wall, out of reach.

“Rude!”

Raven immediately borrows his voice to parrot the word back at him. He gasps theatrically at her, but his body betrays his intentions – his muscles tensing and weight distribution shifting – so Raven’s already moving when he leaps up, rolling towards him to kick his feet out from underneath him. She manages to palm the knife off him as he crashes back down. She’s quick to put distance between them again.

“Nicely executed,” knife-twirler admits, propping himself up on his elbows.

“An execution, you say?” The new arrival is a passenger, not a boarder – he lacks the cloak. He’s also extremely buoyant, considering the circumstances. “I do have some spare energy to burn. So, which of you is first?”

Knife-twirler retrieves another knife from on his person and lunges for the energy-burner.

It happens quickly – energy-burner puts his hand on knife-twirler’s face; there’s light and steam; knife-twirler collapses to the floor, screaming as his flesh blisters. The effect spreads from his face, down his neck – she sees the burns appear on the backs of his hands too. The writhing turns to twitching and knife-twirler groans.

Knife-twirler’s mutation is clearly regenerative. It’s the only reason he could’ve survived that.

“Pity I had to waste energy on him.” Energy-burner smiles wistfully at his hand. “I was saving it all for someone better.”

Raven knows when retreat is the better part of valour. She scrambles away, making sure to seize her coin as she does. Then she runs, laughter following her.

<><><><><>

As soon as they emerge onto the deck, another of the boarders starts shooting at them, forcing them to take cover. Erik throws his dagger, which lodges itself in the gunman’s chest. Everything’s on fire – which seems incredibly representative of the majority of Erik’s life.

Charles has been quiet thus far. “Are you okay?” Erik touches his shoulder, abruptly alarmed. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” Charles swipes at his bloody nose with his sleeve. “Sorry. Yes. It’s not serious. I just don’t usually manifest my powers in such an unrefined way.” Erik’s concern grows, but Charles shakes his head. “I’m alright, honest. It’s the mental equivalent of having pulled a muscle.”

There’s an explosion nearby, a wall of flame roars. A white-hot streak of energy, shaped like an arrow strikes a bundle of nearby hay, setting it alight. Erik tries to track where it came from but sees nothing – he doesn’t sense any metal identifiers around the area where the next arrow abruptly manifests either. This arrow misses their shelter by a few feet.

Erik levitates his gun in the air near him, broadly returning fire. He pulls another from his duffel. “You know how to use this?”

“I avoid them, most of the time,” Charles says as he takes the offered weapon. “But I’m familiar, yes.” He proceeds to clear the revolver, load the cylinder, and thumb back the hammer. Taking up a ready position, he immediately pinpoints the position of the arrow-wielder – no doubt his telepathy aiding him against their power of camouflage – and starts shooting.

A cloaked man becomes visible as he falls from an overhang.

Erik was not prepared for Charles to be so proficient, his form both methodical and practised. To prevent Charles overhearing his thoughts about the skilful handling of the metal weapon, he starts loudly thinking about how they need to move from their current position.

He doesn’t mean to take Charles’s hand again, it just sort of happens.

Charles doesn’t object, so Erik pulls him up. He takes the lead as they run, used to manoeuvring his way through the middle of a battleground. They manage to make it to the other side of the deck without any further issues.

With what appears to be some reluctance, Charles takes back his hand in order to put his fingers against his forehead. “Raven’s alright,” he sighs in relief. “She’s on her way.”

Good. “You swim, right?” Erik asks briskly.

“Of course,” Charles replies distractedly. “How is that relevant right now?”

Erik grabs a fistful of Charles’s shirt and hurls him overboard. There’s an outraged yelp before the sound of a body hitting the water. _‘Catch,’_ he adds, tossing his duffel over the side too.

“Lehnsherr!” The Warden scrambles out from behind a stack of overturned crates. “Slaughter them!” The unspoken ‘what else are you good for’ is understood by them both.

Erik treats the man to a withering stare. “Do it yourself.”

“ _Me?_ That’s contractor work!”

“Wait here until a better one comes along then,” he snaps. As if Laurio’s hands aren’t as blood-soaked as Erik’s own. The man may not have directly taken a life, but not every prisoner in Cairo’s facility survived the arena.

Laurio ignores him. “Do _something!_ ”

Well, if the man insists.

The Warden lets out a wailing cry as he plunges towards the river.

As Erik starts to jump, he’s struck by some form of semi-adhesive netting, gets tangled in it as he falls. It’s heavier than it looks – as he hits the water, he sinks like a stone.

_‘Erik!’_

Erik thrashes, trying to get free. The netting isn’t as sticky anymore, now resembling the consistency of ordinary rope, but it’s still dragging him down. Then Charles grabs his arm, projecting reassurance as he helps Erik detangle himself. Once he’s kicked the last of it away, Charles pulls him back up.

Erik coughs and splutters as they break the surface. _‘Thanks.’_ Despite the freezing water, Charles’s hands leave burning trails on his skin.

“Anytime,” Charles replies, staying close.

<><><><><>

“Reminds me of those souk riots a few years back.” Purple sparks sizzle in Betsy’s hand, shaping themselves into a knife. “Only the fires started _after_ we left.”

Warren snorts, making sure his wings are tucked in tightly at his back as he reloads. “Good thing too.” His feathers had been coated in oil from his impromptu crash landing into an incense stall – it had been a nightmare to preen them afterwards.

Betsy throws her knife at one of the cloaked assailants, her aim as impeccable as ever. The mountainous blob of a man keels over. She whoops, then starts generating a new pair of blades.

Stryker’s counting off his shots – and kills – with great enthusiasm. By contrast, Kelly is having nowhere near as much fun as the rest of them. “Get me out of here,” the man demands.

“Yeah, yeah.” He touches Betsy’s elbow. “Psylocke. Extemporise?”

She nods. “I’ll sing just fine, Angel. Go.”

Warren waits for Betsy and Stryker to start laying cover, then hustles Kelly away from the corner they’d all hunkered down in. He intends to make a straight beeline for the open air of the main deck, but changes direction when he sees Raven engaged in a knife fight. She sees him coming and throws herself to the deck as he raises his gun, shooting her assailant.

“Thanks,” she says, accepting his hand up.

“Mr Worthington,” Kelly urges. Raven gives the man an affronted look which Warren appreciates. “We need to get off this ship, _now._ ”

A bolt of lightning forces them all to duck. Warren turns back to Raven. “Can I?” She sets her knife in his outstretched hand. While Warren’s not quite as skilled as Betsy is, he’s good enough to dispatch their attacker before he can throw another bolt.

Raven accompanies them the rest of the way across the deck. “Not quite how I pictured our race starting,” she jokes as they come to a stop just outside of the overhang, clear of the flames.

Warren laughs, and nods towards the railing of the ship. “I’ll give you a head start.”

She grins. Then she runs towards it, vaulting herself over the rail.

“Why are we still here?” Kelly whines nervously. Warren spreads his wings, grabs Kelly’s arms, and takes flight. _“Mr Worthington!”_ And since the man refuses to stop calling him that, Warren drops Kelly into the river instead of carrying him all the way to the shoreline.

There’s a massive updraft in the blaze, prompting those still on board to hastily disembark, joining the rest in the water. Warren continues circling above, watching as everyone starts swimming for the shore. He spots each of his fellow Lakers, as well as Shaw. None of the boarding party appear to be amongst the survivors, so they must have all been dealt with.

Curiously, Raven and her team are headed for the opposite bank.

<><><><><>

Charles rakes his hair back as they finally reach the shore, then curls his fingers around his own elbows to avoid the temptation of doing the same to Erik’s hair. It’s plastered messily to one side, in an incredibly endearing way.

Laurio dumps the duffel bag down with contempt, muttering under his breath. He doesn’t join in as the rest of them check in with each other. Charles waves off Raven’s concerns about his use of the astral wave, and Raven jokes with Erik about them having to coordinate any future fights to occur in the same place.

“Erik!”

Erik twitches, instantly on edge at the distant shout.

“Hey, Erik! It looks to me like I’ve got all the resources!”

There’s a burst of fury from Erik, driven more by the man’s tone than his words. Erik whirls around. “Hey Shaw!” He yells back, using the same mocking inflection. “It looks to me like you’re on the _wrong side of the river!_ ”

Raven stares at Erik with a sense of mounting realisation, tinged with dread. “You know him?”

Erik grunts, turning his back on the river again. Charles narrows his eyes, hoping Raven’s assumptions are wrong. But given the way Erik crumples the gun he’s holding into a lumpy sphere and throws it aggressively up the dune in front of them, those suspicions only grow more likely.

Charles takes one of Erik’s fists in his hands, squeezes gently. “Come on, my friend. We’ll feel better about all this once we’ve dried off and had a bite to eat.” This coaxes a small smile out at least, and some of the tension leaves Erik.

“A _hot_ meal,” Laurio interjects, trying to squeeze water out of his shirt. “If you can manage something as simple as that, Englishman. Personally, I doubt it.” Then he leers at Raven. “Any ideas on how else to warm up quick– _ly!_ ” The Warden topples over as the duffel bag careens into his legs.

Erik smirks. “Whoops.”

“I saw nothing,” Raven refutes, trying not to laugh.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> ‘Thrall’ is an archaic term for slave; Princess Ahmanet was the titular character from The Mummy (2017) – I repurposed her backstory.
> 
> Energy can be classified as: potential, whereby energy is held by an object; or kinetic, whereby energy is amassed from the momentum of an object. Consider that magnetism is classed as potential energy, and Shaw’s powers of kinetic manipulation allow him to absorb expended energy; and subsequently why Shaw might be so fascinated with Erik’s powers.
> 
> The featured song lyrics are both from the 1998 animated film The Prince of Egypt. The lullaby is the refrain from ‘Deliver Us’ – where the Hebrews entreat their god to free them from slavery. The other comes from ‘Playing with the Big Boys’ – where two high priests attempt to intimidate a Hebrew with a display of their superior power.
> 
> ‘Extemporise’ means ‘to compose or perform music or speech without preparation; to improvise.’ The word shall return.
> 
> -


	6. Beasts of burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tales. Gifts. And Hamunaptra: here we go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Special mention to OneWithoutAName for an earlier Hercule Poirot comparison – the observant Detective Raven makes a return here.
> 
> And for those looking forward to Charles and Shaw exchanging words…the passive-aggressive spectacle of their meeting also awaits you.
> 
> -

<><><><><>

Shaw’s taunt about resources hadn’t been inaccurate. They’d lost almost everything with the ship – equipment, transportation, rations, clothes, and the _books_. Charles still tries not to cringe over this last point, but at least they were all reproductions.

Erik realises he’d left his chess set behind and is quietly devastated. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, trying to downplay the loss. “It’s not important, all things considered.”

Charles is already touching his arm, before he speaks. He learns Erik had always wanted one of his own, and it was the first time he’s ever indulged in having something that belonged to him. ‘ _It_ does _matter, if it’s important to you,_ ’ he murmurs.

Erik ducks his head. _‘…thanks.’_

“Of course it’s not important.” Laurio drops his near-empty bowl onto the table in disgust. “Wasn’t there anything better than this gruel?” Raven purposefully shovels several mouthfuls just to annoy the Warden, and he scoffs. “We sending the thrall to fetch some horses?”

Erik doesn’t look up, but Charles feels his mind recoil – and then understands what the term means to him.

He carefully removes his hand from Erik’s arm, then turns to face the Warden. “I will not tolerate the use of that word again, Laurio.” Especially since the man’s aware of the freelancer lore surrounding Ahmanet. In the face of Charles’s narrow-eyed stare, Laurio’s quick to hide behind his mug.

Raven gets to her feet. “ _I’m_ heading for the market. Erik, if you would _like_ to come with, you can.” Erik agrees, voicing she’ll do better for having a contractor with her. “I’m sure you can keep Laurio preoccupied in the meantime, Charles.”

Oh, he plans to.

“You’re far too concerned about the contractor,” Laurio tells him after the other two have left. “Treating him like he’s worth more than the binding glyph will only give him ideas above his station.”

Charles sets down his mug. “I’m so glad you’ve brought this up. I’ve been wanting to speak with you about your treatment of Erik. It’s unacceptable.”

Laurio’s unmoved. “I’ve already told you and your delectable sister; the welfare of prisoners is hardly your concern.”

“I suggest you cease objectifying Raven too.”

“Or what?” Laurio’s certain he could take Charles in a fight. He decides not to disillusion the man about this. “Going to defend her honour, are you?”

Raven’s perfectly capable of defending herself, but that’s hardly the issue. “I’m her brother. And Erik’s no longer your prisoner, he’s my contractor, and that makes you answerable to me should you mistreat him now.”

The man sneers. “I don’t see why we even need him. You’re a telepath? You could’ve taken the information from him!” Charles says nothing, since Laurio wants confirmation, and when he doesn’t get it his expression sours. He mutters, “light the fire, should’ve set _him_ on fire instead.”

Charles has had enough of this.

“You know what they say about playing with fire.” He reaches into Laurio’s mind, seeking the source of his sensory input. “You’re likely to get burned.” He removes the Warden’s ability to sense the heat of any flame. He also leaves the man aware of this new shortcoming, tells him to consider it a warning. “Am I understood?”

The ashen-faced and wide-eyed Warden nods.

<><><><><>

Laurio trails along behind him in mulish silence as they head out to find the others.

The settlement is a common layover point for travellers, particularly freelancers, so there’s a broader selection of market wares than he was expecting. Charles makes a mental note to get his hands on a new chess set for Erik when they return from their expedition.

He locates the pair easily enough, following their minds, and comes across them just as they finish bartering for several camels.

“I still think they cheated you a little,” Erik remarks.

Raven isn’t too bothered by this, since most of her funds had been what she’d liberated from the Warden. She snatches up a piece of sheer black fabric from the stall beside them. “We could’ve gotten them for free, if you’d modelled for these lovely fabric sellers.” The ladies in question giggle as Raven drapes the cloth across Erik’s shoulders like a shawl.

He rolls his eyes but regards her fondly. “Having me model – for _you_ – has nothing to do with the camels.”

“True,” she shamelessly agrees. She grins at Charles as he draws near. “But you’re so pretty! I think you’d look wonderful in a veil and high boots.”

“Hmm. What would your brother think?”

“Oh, Charles would find you right tempting, I’m sure.”

Charles grabs the end of the fabric, sliding it off Erik’s shoulder to flick it at Raven, who darts away cackling. Even without Erik’s grin he knows they were teasing him.

“You don’t need to dress up to impress me, darling,” he purrs, which causes an interesting flush to appear across Erik’s face. “I find you tempting enough as you are. But if we were going to complete the aesthetic…” Charles examines the jewellery display and picks out a brooch. He fastens the golden _tyet_ onto Erik’s jacket. _‘It’s said the knot of Isis will drive away those who would wrong you.’_

Erik’s fingers trace over the brooch, touched by the gesture. “It’s beautiful.” Emboldened, he adds, _‘dear-heart.’_ Charles’s own face feels rather warm now. Erik’s clearly pleased with his choice of endearment, still grinning.

Raven loudly announces she’s glad her brother has good taste, mainly to remind them she’s still there, and pays one of the ladies for their purchases. Then she leads the way to the edge of the settlement.

“Camels,” Laurio complains. “Filthy beasts. Biting and spitting.”

“Go find a horse then,” Erik remarks as he settles into the saddle. “I could use yours to carry my bag instead.”

The Warden spends much of the beginning of their journey over the dunes glaring at the back of Erik’s head. His glare shifts to Raven by the afternoon, as she loudly sings a tune comprised of the same syllables over and over again. Charles’s earlier demonstration seems to have made an impression though, because the Warden refrains from belittling either of them.

“La-la-la, la-lee-la-lie! Oh-mar-oh-mar- _rah-ha!_ Oh-mar-oh-mar- _rah!_ La-la-la, la-lee-la-lie! Oh-mar-oh-mar- _rah-ha!_ ”

_‘I’m so tempted to join in,’_ Charles tells Erik, who snickers and agrees.

When Raven gets bored with annoying Laurio, she twists around in her saddle to prod Charles with her riding crop. “Psychic camel!”

He laughs. “Can’t you entertain yourself with your own powers?” But he concentrates and summons up the requested projection. Their mounts aren’t bothered by the new arrival, who falls into step with their procession.

“I dub thee: Delphi,” Raven decides. The camel grunts at her, seemingly in approval. She peers down to watch for the occasional faint impression of prints in the sand.

Erik’s fascinated, and swiftly starts a discussion with him about mutations.

<><><><><>

They make camp when night falls. Raven waves away Charles’s offer to help her with the fire, telling him to rest. While it probably wasn’t too difficult for him to maintain the projection of Delphi, since all she’d done was walk alongside them, the camel had stuck around for hours.

After draining his flask of alcohol, the Warden falls asleep quickly. Erik joins her and Charles by the fire. “If we leave early, we can reach the valley before dawn.”

Raven excitedly drums her hands against her knees with increasing tempo, ending with a final slap. “Mother would never have believed this.”

Charles smiles wryly. “Mother wouldn’t have let us out of the study.”

He’s not wrong. Sharon Xavier was never one for participating in expeditions. “Our parents were historians,” she tells Erik. “Very influential in academic circles; backed many important projects.”

Erik pulls out a collection of knives, starts sharpening one of them. He glances at Charles, who answers the question aloud. “Our father passed when we were children.” His heart attack had been unexpected. “Mother came down with an illness not long after she re-married.” A miserable couple of years for everyone involved.

“They left us a large inheritance,” Raven continues. “Or so we were promised.”

Charles sighs. “Upon accreditation, Raven.”

“It’s hardly our fault we lack it!”

Erik looks between them, eyebrow raised. “Common debate, this?”

Raven’s eager to inform him of the particulars. Erik confirms he’s familiar with the Blackbridge Scholars – apparently, he once worked a job from their itinerary. “We’re enrolled in the Marko’s Devotees apprenticeship, so without his certification our applications are worthless. No one in the academic community takes unaccredited apprentices seriously, which means we can’t access financial backing or institutional resources for any independent projects. And we can’t withdraw from the apprenticeship without disowning our inheritance.” They’ve no choice but to take the field postings Kurt offers them.

“Your step-father sounds delightful.”

Raven looks expectantly at Charles, vindicated by Erik’s dry and simple summation. “He’d rather we come around to his line of thinking,” Charles acknowledges. He’s always handled it with more grace than she has.

“He has certain expectations for you,” Erik says, almost to himself.

“Kurt thinks I lack the skills for anything more complicated than inventory. But every site has a different system, and I’m not allowed to make suggestions because I’m ‘not management.’” She emphasises the quotes. “It’s boring, ticking boxes for other people. If I’m keeping track of treasure, it may as well be _my_ treasure.”

“Start your own private collection,” Erik suggests, correctly assuming she has enough tucked away for the beginnings of one. “If freelancers can obtain independent permits for theirs to be officially sanctioned, I don’t see why you can’t seek one.”

Now there’s an idea. Betsy hinted she was sanctioned, might be worth asking her about it.

“He wants me to become an appraiser,” Charles says as Erik looks to him. “Telepathy’s quite useful for authentication and archival work. It’s not _bad_ work, but it’s rather limited. I’d like to develop my own apprenticeship program one day,” he admits, surprising Raven, as he’s never actually verbalised this before. “But, well, is it predictable of me to want my own library?”

“Maybe.” Erik’s undeniably fond. “Still a good look on you.”

They smile at each other like lovestruck idiots. She wonders if they’re actually having a telepathic conversation, or if the mutual adoration is silent. She grins to herself, gives them a few moments to see if they’ll remember her presence on their own.

“Kurt controls our income too,” she says loudly, and they both guiltily jerk their gazes back to her. Ridiculous, the pair of them. It’s such fun to watch. Charles flicks a sense of knowing exasperation at her, which she ignores. “Our monthly allowance is deliberately small.”

“Mainly for personal expenses,” Charles adds, “since everything else is covered under our apprenticeship.”

“We’ve taken out an advance.” Submitted the paperwork for one, at any rate. “If Hamunaptra turns up nothing, Kurt’s going to own our souls the rest of our lives.” She pulls out the adamantium coin, turns it over in her hands. Despite how much the coin alone would be worth, she doubts Kurt would accept it for its commercial value. He’d be more inclined to put it into his own private collection, which makes her less inclined to turn it over to him.

Charles agrees. “But it won’t matter, if the tales are true.”

“I didn’t enter the inner city,” Erik remarks. “But if Shaw can be believed – on _that_ point – there’s plenty to be found there.”

“Assuming we don’t lose everything to the Lakers.” She pauses. “So, you know Shaw?”

Erik nods slowly. Says, “he was my previous signatory.” Her heart sinks. She hadn’t wanted her suspicions to be correct. Then he says, “I say previous. I mean _only_ other signatory.”

The fire crackles. Raven tries not to think about knife-twirler screaming; she doesn’t want to think about a defiant _Erik_ in energy-burner’s hands. Charles must hear her anyway, because his displeasure abruptly sharpens. She wonders if Erik can sense it too.

“I was young when we first met,” Erik continues, staring at the fire. “Sebastian Shaw came to the orphanage looking for a contractor. Both my parents had died in a…an accident.”

“I’m sorry.” Raven cups her hands around the coin. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“You need to know. About Shaw.” Which isn’t reassuring. “He’ll likely try to, uh…antagonise us.” Erik shifts his weight, leaning back. Raven mimics him, settling in for the tale.

Charles leans forward instead, arm braced on his knee. “I’ve heard the orphanage in Cairo isn’t terrible,” he prompts gently.

“It wasn’t,” Erik agrees. “But adoption wasn’t common. The older children were expected to sign something eventually, whether enlisting in a garrison, taking up with a freelancer, or becoming a domestic servant. It wasn’t worth taking your chances on the street alone.”

She’d learned a little about why, while she’d been drafting his contract and listening to Hassan’s complaining. The affirmer preferred prisoners with no connections, because it often meant they’d be desperate enough for a contract they’d sacrifice some of their autonomy to sign. She’d understood then why Erik had felt the need to demand it.

“That’s not to say that some…under-handed practises didn’t happen.”

Charles’s aura flares with fierce indignation on Erik’s behalf again. “Don’t they have multiple affirmers to prevent that sort of thing?”

“The one who came to fetch me, Aisha, she was new, been there a few months or so. Said there was a freelancer who wanted to make me an offer.” Erik grimaces. “Shaw paid her a hefty sum to be discreet, for all the good it did her.”

Raven frowns at the mention of sums, suddenly regaining her ability to do them. He’d been a child when he signed, and she’d met him the night he was emancipated.

“We were encouraged to seek longer contracts, to secure our livelihood,” he says when she asks, but confirms that freelancers usually only offer short-term ones. “Maybe a couple of months at most. The affirmer told me the amendments would be complex, because of the length of the contract. He’d paid her a _really_ hefty sum.”

This wry remark is aimed at Charles, who’s still scowling. “She took advantage of you.”

Erik shrugs. “She paid with her life. But I don’t think she really knew what she was getting into – she’d already verified the base contract before Shaw started with the clauses.” And once you begin an oath, you have to see it through. Raven shakes her head at the affirmer’s folly. “The amendments went on for _hours,_ so many clauses. I did my best to…but I didn’t really know what I was doing.” He sighs.

“He took advantage too.” Charles’s tone is icy. Raven nods, pulling a face. Kurt loves to make her sit in on long, boring meetings – the lengthy duration is a tactic to wear down and confuse the other negotiating party.

Erik flips his knife over in his hand, then drives it into the sand up to the hilt. “He wants a thrall,” he says shortly.

When her brother silently informs her what Erik means by this, Raven sits bolt upright. “Did he have a command word?” Relief floods her when Erik shakes his head.

“Good,” Charles says, in a tone that gives her goose bumps. It’s not often she finds her brother intimidating, and even less often that he chooses to be.

Erik shivers too, but she suspects for a different reason, given how he bites his lip and takes a moment to rearrange his knives.

As his composure returns, so does his frown. “I wonder if he always knew I wasn’t going to agree to one. I made other allowances to avoid it, and in hindsight he may have planned it that way.” His frown deepens. “Shaw’s always planning something, and he’s persistent. He once waited five years before taking a job because he needed everything else to be perfect first.”

“He may be an excellent planner,” Raven declares. “Organised. Resourceful. Doesn’t matter. You know why?” She waits until Erik shakes his head. “Because Charles is far more headstrong, and _I_ am far more glamourous.”

Erik huffs a laugh, smile finally returning. “Rest assured, I feel entirely safe with the pair of you protecting me.” He reaches for his brooch, strokes his thumb over it.

Charles smiles too. But she suspects he’s already plotting Shaw’s demise.

<><><><><>

Helping Warren preen his wings never gets tiresome. Betsy continues working on the feathers near his shoulders, pinching each one lightly and smoothing them out from base to tip.

“Sand,” Warren complains under his breath as he combs through the primaries on his right wing. “Dust.”

She scratches her nails affectionately over the back of his head. “There’s barely any dirt.” His wings are as magnificent as ever, and he knows it. Sure enough, he chuckles.

Kelly gets to the end of his rather dreary lecture about ceramics, and Stryker gives him a slow round of applause. “Truly fascinating, Bob. Come on, Shaw, your turn. Got any interesting stories up your sleeve?”

Shaw smiles. “Hmm. How about some ancient literature?” As he stokes the fire, shadows play across his face. “I’m rather partial to ‘The Spirited Peasant’ myself.”

“Surprised to hear that.” Kelly polishes his glasses. “It’s not well-known outside of academic circles.”

“I came across the original transcription several years ago.” Shaw’s smile broadens as Kelly gapes at him. “My contractor retrieved it for me, from the Mutaha Pyramid.” Betsy whistles lowly, still as impressed as ever Lehnsherr had managed to traverse the labyrinth. But then, there’s a reason there’s only one magenta contractor.

“Remind me to ask him about that,” Warren murmurs lethargically. Rumours held the labyrinth could only be exited if one’s path through it was completed in a precise order. Betsy’s money was on using statues of the deities as markers; Warren had suggested a trail of specific glyphs to follow.

Shaw sits back and begins the tale.

><><

Beneath the light of a full moon, the peasant Khun-Anup travelled along a narrow path, his five donkeys laden with goods for the marketplace so that he might earn enough wealth and supplies to last him the next season.

Despite his lowly status, the peasant was proud and strong, but his stubborn and independent spirit left him with much untapped potential.

The path led the peasant toward the lands of the honoured nobleman Nemtynakht, who was renowned for his genius wit and exceptional might.

Nemtynakht had long wished for Khun-Anup to be his vassal and so, as he spied the peasant’s approach, he devised an intelligent scheme. Taking a bolt of his finest silk, the nobleman unfurled it across the pathway by the east border. To one side of the covered path lay the muddy riverbanks, and to the other lay the golden barley fields. There, the nobleman waited.

When Khun-Anup arrived and saw the silk, he brought his donkeys to a halt. “You are Nemtynakht, who owns these lands?”

“I am.”

“Would you remove the cloth from the path, good nobleman, that I may continue my journey?”

“I will not.”

Khun-Anup was dismayed, as this meant the way forward was forbidden to him; for if a peasant damaged the property of a nobleman, they must surrender all their goods in recompense. “But then what am I to do?”

The nobleman suggested, “take the left side.”

“But there lies the mudbanks.” If the peasant stepped there, his donkeys would become stuck. He would be forced to abandon them, and they would all perish. “I cannot go that way.”

The nobleman suggested, “take the right side.”

“But there lies the fields.” If the peasant stepped there, he would be beaten and flogged, for only peasants who served the nobleman were permitted on the private land. “I cannot go that way.”

“Perhaps I may remove the cloth,” the nobleman said. “If you sign a deed of service to me.”

“Forgive me, but I shall not,” the peasant replied.

Thrice more throughout the night, Khun-Anup appealed for the nobleman to cease blocking his path; thrice more Nemtynakht responded with the choices of the banks, the fields, or signed service.

As dawn came and the morning light touched the east border, one of Khun-Anup’s donkeys was drawn to the edge of the field. Before the peasant could recall it, the beast ate a single bite of barley.

On Nemtynakht’s lands, the price of theft was death. Thus so, he took out his knife and slayed the offending animal. The peasant let out a cry of grief.

“Surrender your livestock and goods,” the nobleman instructed. “For my property has been damaged.”

“This is unfair!” The peasant protested. “I shall not.”

“Justice must be upheld,” the nobleman stated. “You also must submit to me, for neither you nor your beasts are in my service and hence have trespassed.”

Khun-Anup again protested this to be unfair and refused. But the nobleman was both powerful and gifted. He beat and flogged the peasant as was his right, then threw Khun-Anup into the mudbanks.

“I will help you out,” Nemtynakht said. “On the condition you become my vassal.”

The peasant did not speak other than to curse the nobleman.

Each day, the nobleman presented the offer and condition to the peasant, and each day, the peasant chose to remain stuck in the mudbanks. On the tenth day, the peasant once again complained about his treatment.

“Very well,” the nobleman allowed. “We shall refer this matter to the Pharaoh.”

The nobleman freed the peasant from the mudbanks, and Khun-Anup was given into the custody of the magistrates. The high steward Rensi was appointed to prepare the peasant for his audience with the Pharaoh. The steward was troubled by the peasant’s plight and promised to do all he could to help.

Pharaoh Nebkaure was intrigued by the peasant’s strength and spirit, and so he delayed passing any judgement. Until such time as a judgement was made, the peasant was to remain in the steward’s custody, and the confiscated goods and livestock to remain in the nobleman’s possession.

Nine more days passed. The steward, having come to love the peasant like family, did all he could to secure his friend leniency. But his increasingly impassioned pleas began to displease the pharaoh. The nobleman offered to solve this problem and received the pharaoh’s blessing to act as he saw fit.

When the dawn came, the steward was dead.

The peasant, in his despair, threatened to end his own life. The magistrates punished this insolence with a beating and restrained him to ensure his compliance.

The pharaoh declared it time for the judgement, so the peasant was bought before him.

In the matter of the surrendered goods, he deemed the nobleman justified, for his property was damaged. In the matter of the flogging, he deemed the nobleman justified, for the peasant’s beast had trespassed. In the matter of the slain donkey, he deemed the nobleman justified, for the animal had committed theft.

Discouraged, the peasant cried, “were it not for the nobleman placing the cloth, none of this would have transpired!”

“Be that as it may,” the pharaoh said, “his terms were clear.” The pharaoh then proclaimed his judgement: “Nemtynakht freed the peasant from the mudbanks, and so Khun-Anup is bound to become his vassal.”

The nobleman bowed. “I thank you, great pharaoh, for allowing justice to be upheld.”

And so, the peasant finally came to be in the service of the nobleman. The nobleman treated him with great favour; the peasant was allowed free reign throughout his lands and did not want for wealth or supplies.

Beneath the nobleman’s guiding hands, Khun-Anup came to realise the fullest of his potential, and also came to understand the wisdom and generosity of his master. For the rest of his days, the spirited peasant was the most loyal and ardent vassal the kingdom had ever seen.

><><

Concluding the tale, Shaw is highly satisfied.

Kelly nods approvingly. “An exceptional piece of literature.”

“The peasant should’ve just agreed from the start,” Stryker comments. “At least he got put into his proper place by the end of it.”

The only word she can think of to describe Shaw’s smile is predatory. “Yes.”

Warren says nothing, frowning. She catches his gaze and they exchange dubious looks. Still, with the promise of Hamunaptra a mere handful of hours away, she can tolerate a few distasteful stories. Her own tale, about the time she liberated some treasure from a band of thieves who’d tried to steal from her, is far better anyway.

<><><><><>

The wind sighs, as if in sympathy for Wade’s plight, or so he’s been saying to Logan for the past several hours.

Irene touches her hand to his face, and he falls silent. The texture beneath her fingers is new, but she doesn’t shy away from it. “I _can_ see you. I prefer this sight, then seeing you at the bottom of the river instead.”

He relaxes and relents. “It _is_ worse when you’re dead, I suppose. But let’s conveniently _not_ discuss my potential mortality right now.”

She withdraws her hand, moves towards the cliff edge where Logan’s keeping watch. “We’ve got four more riders on the horizon,” he tells her.

Again, she gathers her power and casts clairvoyance across her vision.

_– he ignores the gun aimed at his face in favour of angling his torch just so –_

_– “so, what’s a place like you doing in a girl like this?” –_

_– he screams and screams, scrambling in desperation –_

But the fourth –

_– the sand’s cursed –_

Irene’s perception is abruptly derailed, all of her senses overwhelmed with sand, and she jerks free of her vision. Logan’s hand curls around her elbow, steadying her.

“I still cannot see him,” she states. “He’s strong, this one.” But he’s not the reason her heart’s still racing. She can already taste the wine on her tongue.

“Ha!” Abruptly jubilant, Wade bounds over to them. “He’s back! Didn’t I say so?” His sudden erratic footwork suggests he’s doing his victory dance. “Logan! Dead pool clause! Gun and sword!”

“Nah, yeah, in a minute.”

“Now!”

Logan grumbles under his breath. Irene smiles at the unholstering of a gun, the loosening of a sheathe.

“You know what I need now? I need to dead pool someone else for a second sword!” There’s laughter threaded through his words. “Actually, you have another sword, don’t you? Shall we speculate again about how things might turn out?”

“Will you shut up?”

“Nuh-uh! Like any sensible person, I’m here for the commentary!”

Wade had almost cried with relief when Logan’s only reaction to his return had been to tell him he was late. _Logan_ had almost cried with relief when Wade’s first comment had been a random anecdote about reed boats. They have an interesting dynamic.

“So?”

“Yeah, nah.”

“What? Aw, come on!”

Logan huffs, then decides to ignore Wade. He asks Irene for her opinion on their course of action. His concern isn’t unfounded, but she knows he’s not going to like her answer, since she isn’t sure how to articulate why she feels it’s the best course of action.

“We wait.”

<><><><><>

In the dim pre-dawn light, their two groups converge at the far side of the valley. Erik’s disappointed that Shaw’s camel has such a benign temperament, failing to have thrown him off and trampled him at any point. The Warden mutters crossly under his breath when he sees the rest of Shaw’s team, including a troupe of locals they’ve hired for extra manpower, are on horses.

“Good morning, Erik.”

Erik ignores him, but still takes care to position his mount between Shaw and his friends.

“Well?” Kelly demands haughtily.

“Patience, my good fellow.” Shaw leans forward a little, eyes still on Erik. “What a pretty little trinket.” It takes Erik a moment to realise Shaw’s attention is on the gold pinned to his jacket.

“The brooch I gave him?” Charles interjects lightly, nudging his camel a little closer to Erik’s. “Yes, it suits him, doesn’t it?”

Erik holds very still as Charles and Shaw smile not _quite_ civilly at each other.

“Charles Xavier. I didn’t think an academic would have such good taste in _trinkets._ ”

“Sebastian Shaw. How good of you to join us on the _correct_ side of the valley.”

The faux politeness of Shaw’s tone doesn’t waver. “I once had the opportunity to meet your stepfather, years ago. I trust Doctor Marko is doing well?”

“He is rather.” Charles’s casual air is flawless. “But I’ve heard so much about you, and your expertise as a freelancer.”

“Naturally.”

“It must be _difficult_ for you now, though. No longer being a signatory.”

“I’ll adapt, in the meantime.” Erik doesn’t like the implication Shaw’s currently unbound status is a temporary arrangement. Because he’s watching for it, he catches the way Shaw’s fingers flex around the handle of his riding crop. Shaw finds Charles aggravating, a feat in itself. “You’re looking a little… overwrought. Erik can be somewhat _spirited_ ; I suppose not everyone can know the proper way to _handle_ him.”

Long engrained habit prevents him from reeling back. Erik latches his senses onto his brooch, grounding his attention in its simple shape. Shaw’s not close enough to reach him.

Charles’s tone shifts slightly, sharpening brightly. “ _My_ contractor performs admirably, in every aspect. I’m immensely satisfied, no complaints.”

If Shaw’s insinuation had been a surgical knife, Charles’s is a pistol. Erik finds his voice and somehow manages to keep it steady. “Charles is an exceptional signatory. I’m more than content.” And this dangerous claim – that he’s _happy_ – is akin to an explosive.

Shaw’s jaw clenches. Then he sighs, shaking his head like Erik’s personally disappointed him and turning to look back out across the valley. Erik knows they’ve not heard the last of this.

Raven leans forward, eyeing Charles thoughtfully. “I’m thinking Sekh might be necessary after all.”

“No.” Charles doesn’t shift his gaze from Shaw. “Whatever for? I’m fine. Perfectly calm, not angry at all.”

“Right.” She pauses. “I can see that.”

“Well, _I’m_ …” Erik tries to decide how best to describe the last few minutes of his life. “Not fine. Warn me next time, Charles.”

“For praising your performance?” Raven asks slyly.

Wonderful. He was hoping she wouldn’t notice that. And Charles’s smirk doesn’t help things. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t!” She sings, beaming when he can’t help but smile.

Stryker interjects then to remind them about the wager: five hundred gold pieces. Warren, still astride his horse, flexes his wings. “Good luck keeping up with me once I’m in the air.”

“I wouldn’t recommend trying that,” Shaw remarks idly, glancing towards Warren. “Even if you manage to take-off while in this part of the valley, you’ll plummet the moment you reach the city limits.” He smiles as everyone turns to look at him.

Stryker leans forward, intrigued. “It’s true then? The city drains mutants of their powers?”

Shaw claims ‘drain’ to be a strong word. “‘Dampens’ is more accurate.”

“I could kill you,” Erik says suddenly, the realisation flooding him. It might be achievable, if Shaw’s powers are suppressed enough, but his own remain as unhindered as last time.

“And distress the camels?” Shaw pats his on the head a few times. “You can try now if you like, son, but you’re better off waiting until we’re both deeper into the city.”

Erik tightens his grip on the reigns, says nothing further. He wants to try. His gun is _right there,_ he could pull it out, shoot Shaw in the head. But the encouraging smile, the anticipation in Shaw’s eyes, doesn’t bode well. He’s probably better off waiting until Shaw’s not expecting it.

<><><><><>

The comment about dampening prompts Warren to test his abilities. Raven watches with interest as he attempts to take flight from a standing position. His wings beat hard, but he only gets a few inches off the ground. “No momentum,” he complains.

“Remember the canyon?” Betsy suggests thoughtfully.

Warren retreats a fair distance, then sprints towards her; crouched, Betsy cups her hands out in front of her. Warren jumps, his foot landing in her palms, which he uses as a springboard as she launches herself back upright. He hovers several feet in the air, wings spread wide and flapping fiercely to maintain his balance.

“We did it the other way around, last time,” Betsy tells Raven. “He was flying, and I used him to bridge the two halves of a canyon.” She’s pleased when Raven compliments the innovative technique.

After a minute or so, Warren lands again. He pulls a face. “I don’t think I’m going to get much higher than that. And gliding, sure. But sustained flight?” He blows a raspberry, disappointed.

Betsy summons sparks of psionic energy easily enough, though her knives aren’t as clearly defined as she’d like. But when she attempts to throw them, they dissipate shortly after leaving her hands, turning back into a collection of sparks, which fade away the further they get from her.

Raven turns her attention to the trio of humans, gauging their reactions. Stryker’s unconcerned, watching the empty desert rather than his fellow Lakers; his definition of power doesn’t correlate with mutation. There’s a mild longing to Kelly’s expression; demonstrations always remind him of what he lacks. The Warden is wary, distrustful; more so about the lessened protection than anything else.

She discreetly makes an attempt to shapeshift, concentrating on her left hand. Her scales ripple more slowly than usual, and while she does manage a change from naked blue skin to brown leather gloves, it takes more effort than she expects. She reverts to normal and wriggles her fingers.

_‘Raven.’_

_‘I can hear you,’_ she confirms. _‘I’m guessing you can still hear everyone else?’_

_‘The usual surface thoughts, yes, though I think my range might be smaller. Do you mind if I…?’_

She consents and feels him reach into her mind, testing her barriers and his abilities. She feels the urge to wrap the reigns around her wrist, but it fades when she tries examining the thought. Her sudden imagined thirst, on the other hand, isn’t quenched until she takes a sip from her flask. Clearly, he still has influence.

Once he withdraws, she asks, _‘not going to try a projection?’_

His response is measured. _‘Not while Shaw’s present.’_

Valid point. Erik had warned them about Shaw’s attentiveness when it comes to powers. _‘You believe him? That it’s worse inside the city?’_

Charles’s gaze flits between Shaw and Erik. _‘I believe he likes to weaponize the truth, when it’s benefits him to tell it.’_

“Would you like to hear my theory?” And though Shaw projects his voice loudly enough it _could_ be aimed at the whole group, though he’s _seemingly_ preoccupied with his riding crop, Raven suspects not. “Powers become primarily self-contained.”

Raven considers Shaw’s powers; if this theory’s accurate, the man might still be able to absorb energy. Whether he’d be able to expend it, she isn’t sure. And what would happen to the energy, if he can’t burn it?

But Erik somehow manages to be suspicious and resigned all at once. “And what about my abilities?”

Shaw’s disproportionally thrilled to have Erik’s attention again. Holy Hathor, the man’s unnerving. “You’ve always been _exceptional,_ ” he tells Erik, which earns a flat look. “Tell me, is your magnetism an active or passive ability?”

Erik opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. His brow furrows as he considers, then deems not to answer at all.

The smile Shaw then gives Erik is one Raven recognises from many a mentor, taking credit for the achievements of their apprentice, even when it has nothing to do with them. “Almost time. Ready?”

Erik stretches his arm out in front of him, fingers splayed.

_‘What’s he doing?’_

_‘Waiting for dawn,’_ Charles replies.

It arrives a moment later, the sun rising up from beneath the horizon. She’s treated to a second-hand impression via Charles – Erik senses a shift in resonance, the flexing of an invisible barrier trying to assert itself. But it breaks against Erik’s perception like a wave on the shore and as it does, the air shimmers.

Like a mirage, the city appears at the far end of the valley, becoming clearer and clearer until it’s as if it was always there.

“Hamunaptra,” Betsy sighs reverently.

In a low undertone, Shaw decrees, “only the beginning.”

All at once, everyone spurs their mounts into action, charging towards the city. Raven’s exceptionally smug when the camels prove to be the better contenders, quick to pull ahead. She finds herself in fourth place, just behind Erik.

Despite neither of them actually being involved in placing the bet, Charles and Shaw are very invested in fighting each other for the lead. Hardly surprising. Then Shaw tries to strike Charles with his riding crop – the first blow clips his shoulder, the second lands on his arm. Raven shouts in outrage.

The next blow misses Charles – Shaw almost hits himself in the face with the recoil, which she doubts is a coincidence. When they were kids, she’d once managed to somehow destroy her favourite tapestry of Cleopatra, a few hours after she’d ruined one of Charles’s favourite books.

Erik raises a hand and hooks his fingers in mid-air, then pulls them to the side. Shaw abruptly tumbles from his seat – as if pulled – hitting the sand and rolling to avoid being trodden on by a camel. Charles and Erik both cast the man a smug look as they ride on.

It's clearly a coincidence that Raven’s riding crop leaves her hand and happens to whack Shaw in the back of the head. But he definitely deserves it.

She urges her camel on, closing the distance between her and first place, which is admittedly made easier because Charles and Erik are now keeping pace with each other to have a conversation. “Ta-ta, boys!” She wiggles her fingers in farewell as she overtakes them.

She whoops in victory as she rides into the city.

Slowing her camel to a more sedate pace, she starts scouting the immediate area, waiting for the others to catch up. The ruins of Hamunaptra are more impressive than any other dig site she’s visited before, and her fingers itch to start looking for treasure.

She brings her camel to a halt, turning as she hears a horse approaching.

“Nice flight,” Warren congratulates her, then tosses her a small pouch. “My portion, as was promised. One hundred gold coins, rolled and ratified.”

She peers into the bag and sure enough there’s ten rolls, each wrapper bearing a treasurer’s glyph. “Thanks.” She grins. “I’m good, aren’t I?”

He laughs. “Confident of your own skills, sure.” He gives her a half-hearted salute, assuring her he’ll remind the others to pay their shares.

Laurio joins her before Charles and Erik do – the two of them obviously distracted by their flirting again.

“I’m not distracted,” her brother protests.

“Yet you don’t deny the other claim.” Despite her teasing, she figures Erik was fussing about whether Charles had been hurt by Shaw – Charles reassures her he wasn’t injured. “So…” She props a hand on her hip. “Where do we start?”

“Ideally, with the statue of Anubis.”

“Anubis?” Erik heaves a heavy sigh, almost exasperated. “Of course. Follow me then. And watch out for cursed sand.”

Laurio splutters. “What do you mean, _cursed sand?_ ”

<><><><><>

The one with the power to manipulate magnetic fields has returned to his city.

Such a magnificent gift…

<><><><><>

“Someone’s already having fun,” Robert observes, after listening to Stryker barking instructions at their workers for a time.

Shaw hums from where he’s leaning against a pillar. Robert follows his gaze, is unsurprised to see the man’s watching the other team, busying themselves in the distance. Xavier’s directing the others with a confidence that’s clear, even from this far away. It infuriates him, the possibility that the young man has multiple PhDs, as his sister claimed.

“Your former contractor is proving quite an asset to Xavier, by the looks of things,” Robert says tightly. “I hope that’s not going to cost us.”

“I can assure you; you’ll uncover your share of relics soon enough.” Shaw doesn’t take his eyes off Lehnsherr.

Robert leaves him be, heading down towards the entrance the workers are shifting stone out from. “Miss Braddock! Mr Worthington! Perhaps you’d like to lend you _talents_ to this effort!”

Worthington leans in to mutter something to Braddock, who laughs. Before he can snap at them for the show of disrespect, they both stand and stretch, agreeing to help out.

<><><><><>

“According to the Blackbridge Scholars, the Book of Amun-Ra was hidden in a secret compartment beneath the statue of Anubis,” Charles says as he adjusts the position one of the ancient mirrors. He glances at Erik, who’s staring up at the jackal-headed statue with an odd expression. “Everything all right?”

Erik blinks, shrugs off his preoccupation. “Yeah.” He gestures towards another mirror, near where Raven’s securing a length of rope around a pillar. “Happy with the placement of that one?”

“Perhaps an inch to the left,” he muses, mainly as an excuse to see Erik use his powers again. There’s something enticing about the decisive way Erik beckons, the way the copper heeds the crook of his fingers.

Erik clears his throat. “I have something for you. Here.” He shoves the bundle of cloth he’s been holding at Charles.

Inside is a small leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen. “For me?”

Erik’s decidedly not looking at him. “Found them in the market. Raven said you keep journals of your work. Thought you might like them – need them, since you lost yours.”

Oh, how very sweet of him. “Thank you. I love them.” His smile broadens as Erik’s flush deepens. He pats Erik’s shoulder, then slides his hand down so he can set his thumb to the edge of the brooch, gleaming brightly beneath the sun.

He senses a quiver of anticipation as Erik meets his gaze. “I was going to give it to you… _later._ ”

Before he can respond, there’s a crash. They turn to see Laurio tangled in the rope beside the upturned mirror, Raven holding her hands up in a picture of innocence. Charles tuts. At least Erik seems just as irked with the Warden by his timing.

_‘Didn’t mean to interrupt,’_ Raven apologises, as Erik heads over to drag Laurio free, the mirror righting itself with a wave of his hand. Charles shrugs it off. There’ll be time for _later_ , later.

Laurio dumps the end of the rope into the cavern opening. “Ladies first,” he tells Raven.

“Age before beauty,” she retorts.

Erik’s already taking hold of the rope when Laurio rounds on him. “I know – it’s contractor work.” Dryly, he adds, “‘Cowards may die many times before their death.’”

Erik quoting literature does _not_ make Charles go weak in the knees. “Watch out for bugs,” he suggests faintly. Erik grins at him before descending.

“I _hate_ bugs,” the Warden complains.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Egyptian Deities:  
> ED: Isis is a sky goddess, associated with motherhood, protection, magic, and wisdom. She’s closely associated with the goddess Hathor (but more on her shortly).  
> ED: Anubis, the god of death and the Underworld, is often referred to as ‘jackal-headed’ in relation to his anthropomorphic form. Technically, recent archaeological data indicates his sacred animal was the African golden wolf.
> 
> Egyptian Hieroglyph [as per Gardiner’s Sign List]:  
> EH: [V39] ‘Tyet’ – the tyet resembles an ankh, except its arms curve downwards. It’s a symbol for welfare and/or life.
> 
> The Oracle of Delphi, a high priestess of the Greek Temple of Apollo, was a preeminent figure from 7th Century BC to 4th Century AD and was revered for the gift of prophecy.
> 
> Ironically, ‘Aisha’ means ‘alive’ in Arabic.
> 
> ‘Mutaha’ is Arabic for ‘labyrinth.’ The movie ‘Labyrinth’ (1986) shows a room based on the lithograph print ‘Relativity’ by M. C. Escher, which will give you an indication of why Betsy and Warren are so impressed Erik traversed it.
> 
> Shaw tells an amended version of The Eloquent Peasant [‘A Peasant of Good Speech’], author unknown; one of the few pieces of Ancient Egyptian literature which survives in its entirety. In the original tale, the peasant receives justice: his property is returned, and the compensation he receives leaves the nobleman in poverty instead. Shaw prefers this story-verse’s amended version, for obvious reasons.
> 
> For those who don’t speak Australian: ‘nah, yeah’ means ‘yes,’ whereas ‘yeah, nah’ means ‘no.’
> 
> “Cowards may die many times before their death” – from ‘Julius Caesar’ by William Shakespeare
> 
> -


	7. Adamantium and red wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for nothing is it called the City of the Dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> My casting of Irene: Michelle Dockery, cast as Susan, in Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather.
> 
> -

<><><><><>

“Let there be light,” Charles says, adjusting the primary mirror. It catches the sunlight from outside and redirects it into the cavern, scattering the beam and illuminating the space around them.

“A _sah-netjer!_ ” Raven exclaims, looking around.

“A what?”

“A preparation chamber,” she tells the Warden, grinning darkly. “For mummification.” Laurio eyes the nearby ancient equipment warily.

Erik looks up from where he’s crouched beside his duffel. “Raven. Here.” He offers her a gun and holster. “You too, Charles.” His insistence on them being armed is a reasonable precaution. Excavation sites are plenty dangerous even without an untrustworthy freelancer nearby.

Laurio glares when Erik then shoulders his bag, slinging the strap over his head. “And what, nothing for me?”

“You’re already armed.”

Having deemed the torches serviceable, Charles takes one from its bracket and lights it. “Would you like one of these instead?” Laurio’s quick to shake his head, colour draining from his face as he regards the flames. “Suit yourself.” He hands it to Raven instead.

_‘What did you do to him?’_

_‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’_

Raven laughs aloud. “Sure, Charles.”

He gives Erik a torch too, takes one for himself, then directs the group through to the other side of the chamber. They enter a tunnel, heading towards where the statue of Anubis will be. Erik takes the lead, looking particularly fetching in the firelight.

The quiet is suddenly disturbed by a rush of eerie sounds – scuttling and skittering, above their heads, within the walls. Everyone whips around, tracking the noises, but they end as quickly as they’d started.

“What was that? What was _that?_ ”

Erik starts forward again. His dry tone conceals his smirk entirely. “Bugs, probably.”

This earns the intended reaction: Laurio spins in a full circle, then whines when he gets caught on a nearby cobweb. He flails, patting emphatically at the threads sticking to him. “I hate bugs!”

Charles makes a point to touch Erik’s elbow and offer a knowing grin.

They emerge from an archway at the end of the passage into another chamber. “Anubis,” Raven notes gleefully, spying the plinth on which the feet of the statue rests. She slides her torch into an empty bracket on the wall by the arch.

Charles approaches the plinth, eager to start inspecting the glyphs etched across the surface of it. “The secret compartment should be hidden somewhere inside here.”

After placing his torch too, Erik joins him. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” He reaches out, touching one of the gold-brushed symbols.

Distorted whispers start echoing around them, prompting everyone to grow tense. Unlike earlier, these sounds grow louder, closer. All of them warily crowd together by the plinth.

_‘It’s coming from that direction,’_ Charles decides, nodding towards the side of the chamber currently out of their line of sight. Erik pulls out both guns; Raven and Laurio also raise theirs. Charles tightens his grip on his torch, gathering astral energy instead.

As a group, they swing out from around the plinth – to find themselves face-to-face with the Lakers, who are equally armed and braced for trouble. There’s a moment in which they all simply look at each other.

“By the gods, Raven.” Betsy exhales heavily. “You guys scared us half to death.”

“Likewise,” Raven agrees.

Everyone slowly lowers their weapons. Erik’s well-deserved tendency to be suspicious of Shaw is contagious, it seems. Charles finds it interesting he and the Lakers have managed to stumble across them so quickly, despite the extensive ruins. “Well, now that’s sorted, we bid you farewell. We’d like to get started with our work.”

Kelly takes instant offense. “I don’t think so, boy. This is our dig site.”

“We were here first,” Raven snaps.

Stryker, Kelly, and Shaw bring their weapons back up; Erik, Raven, and Laurio follow suit; Betsy smooths out the wisping edges of her psionic knife between her fingers. Warren, amused by the whole spectacle, flexes his wings a little. The workers gathered behind him mutter quietly to each other.

“Withdraw, now,” Stryker says coolly. “That’s an order.”

“I’m no soldier,” Erik rebuffs calmly. “But if you want a fight, I’ll oblige.” Stryker glares, turns the revolver towards him.

“My team against yours don’t make for very good odds,” Shaw comments, with all the airs of a wise mentor. As his gaze shifts to Charles, his surface thoughts are goading. “You wouldn’t put your friends at risk, now would you?”

Raven’s thoughts abruptly press against his mind – she’s nudging a few pebbles with her feet into a fissure in the floor, listening to them fall through. There’s a lower level beneath them. Excellent news.

Erik takes half a step forward, regaining Shaw’s attention. Both Erik’s guns are trained on the man’s chest. “Give me an excuse. I will kill you.”

“Let’s not make a mess of the dig site.” Shaw flexes his wrist slightly, enough to highlight his gun’s still pointing at Charles. “I want this site. And I always get what I want.”

Charles takes a moment to assess his own mental barriers, fortifying them. He doesn’t want to risk his ire with Shaw spilling over to afflict the others.

Erik’s immense loathing is definitely his own. “I want you to perish in agony and burn forevermore in the fiery lakes of the Underworld. May Ammit devour your heart.” Shaw’s only response to the vitriol is to click his tongue at Erik.

Laurio, on the other hand, is highly alarmed, mainly due to the number of reasons Erik might decide to take issue with _him_ next. “Xavier! If he starts killing, you command him to kill _them!_ ”

“Changed your mind about needing him, I see,” Charles notes mildly. He steps into Erik’s space, touches his arm. This inadvertently brings him closer to Shaw too, but he ignores the gun aimed at his face in favour of angling his torch just so, the flames licking dangerously close to Laurio’s hand. “Playing with fire again?”

The Warden skitters backwards, unsettled by the absence of the warmth he should feel. Charles hands his torch off to Raven, then smiles diplomatically at the Lakers. Erik arches an eyebrow at him. _‘Charles?’_

_‘Warning you this time,’_ Charles responds playfully, folding his hand over Erik’s wrist. Shaw tracks the gesture. _‘This alright?’_

_‘You can touch me whenever you like.’_ Erik’s sincerity runs deeper than merely supporting Charles’s posturing. He’s still concerned Shaw will later find an opportunity to take revenge, though.

But If Shaw thinks he’s going to get the better of them, he’s wrong.

“It does seem rather silly to waste time bickering over sites. There’s plenty of space for all of us in the city.” Charles reaches for the strap of Erik’s duffel, smoothing it flat against his chest. “Let’s not start a fight today.”

Erik’s chest rises and falls beneath his touch. “If that’s what you want.” He lowers his weapons, which prompts everyone else to do the same, and re-holsters them. “For _you_ , I’ll play nice.” Erik notes the frozen smile on Shaw’s face, thinking, _‘he really doesn’t like you at all.’_

Charles is then momentarily distracted when Erik, aware of why he’s being deliberate tactile, decides to contribute by draping his arm over Charles’s shoulder.

_‘Oh, he’s good,’_ Raven comments, amused.

“If this site’s so important to Shaw, he and the Lakers should have it.” He pretends to ignore everyone else, smiling up at Erik. “You and I can find somewhere else to go – that is to say, our team can find another place to dig.”

“Good idea.”

Shaw is oozing hatred in his direction and it takes all Charles has not to smirk.

<><><><><>

Erik swings the pickaxe manually, digging up at the earth above their heads. He keeps one eye on Charles, who’s reading the glyphs on the wall.

“We’re definitely underneath the statue.”

“Never doubted you.”

When Charles turns to face him, his smile is warm and fond. “I appreciate that.”

Erik finds the ceiling very fascinating. He feels rather than sees Charles’s smile grow.

Having finished lighting all the small braziers mounted on stone pillars throughout the chamber, Raven bounds back over to them. “Imagine their faces when we steal the book right out from under them.” She watches him strike a few blows with the pickaxe. “How come you’re using your hands? I mean, like that, instead of?” She mimics his usual gesture, holding her hand out as if to command the metal.

“If I exert too much magnetic energy, Shaw can sense it.” Erik punctuates this comment with a particularly vicious stab at the rockface. Neither of his friends are happy to hear this. “He shouldn’t notice any minor use from this distance.” Especially given the city’s dampening field. “But we _are_ trying to keep a low profile.”

Raven mutters something uncomplimentary. Then she asks, “but you can still sense the compartment?”

“There’s something up there,” he agrees. There’s plenty of metal above him – a greater amount than he’d expected – even if his sense of it isn’t entirely clear. He relays the vagueness of the metallic-laced oblong space.

Charles looks thoughtful, but Raven cuts over his question to ask hers. “What did you think about Shaw’s dampening theory? He said you were an exception.”

That’s not exactly what he’d said, but Erik’s glad for her tact. “Last time, he said my magnetism had more ‘gravity’ than the field over the city. But he also told me I wouldn’t be able to wield metal at all – or maybe he just implied that.” He frowns, lowering the pickaxe to examine the metal on it. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference between what Shaw _says_ and what Shaw wants him to _hear_. “But to answer your question…I think my magnetism’s taking preference over my metal sense. Not sure exactly what that says about his theory.”

“I find I don’t care much for his opinion,” Charles offers imperiously.

Erik would go to _war_ for Charles. He clears his throat. “Very wise of you.” They grin at each other; Erik turns his grin on Raven when she rolls her eyes, then he recommences digging.

“Speaking of people whose opinions are irrelevant, the Warden’s taking his time. Reckon he’s lost?”

Charles cocks his head, shrugs. “He’s out of my range.”

<><><><><>

William taps his crowbar against his palm, impatient for Kelly and Braddock to finish inspecting the plinth. “Here, I reckon,” Braddock decides, indicating one of the tiles.

“Finally.” William’s beyond ready to start breaking open these crypts.

“Wait!” Kelly protests sharply. William pauses, his crowbar poised to strike. “The First One was not one to relinquish that which was his, even in death.” Kelly indicates their slave labour. “Let the workers make the breach, Will.”

While William usually doesn’t care to take directions from anyone else, he’s secure enough to recognise when doing so will benefit him. “This _is_ the sort of thing we hired them for.” He hands his crowbar off to one of the workers. He’ll always be able to blow off some steam by giving one of them a good thrashing later; local slaves may be good for menial work, but this hardly makes them competent.

It’s almost insulting to watch them struggle to prise open the slab, especially knowing he could do better. He folds his arms, drums his fingers on his elbow. Braddock’s conversing with Worthington, the winged mutant perched on a low boulder on the other side of the chamber. Shaw still hasn’t returned.

“Faster, faster, come on,” Kelly continues to urge the workers.

William puts a hand on his shoulder, to silence him, then barks, “ _Abide!_ ” Their response to the command is instant. With one great effort, the tile comes loose at last.

There’s a hiss – a fine spray of aerosolised liquid is released from the breach. It covers the workers crowded around the plinth, who stagger back and scream as it eats away at their skin like acid.

“Fascinating,” Kelly breathes as they collapse to the ground.

Worthington and Braddock move in, either to fruitlessly try and help, or merely to hold the workers down as they writhe uncontrollably.

Kelly sniffs contemptuously. “You see? The city won’t give up its secrets so easily.”

The workers were dead the moment the acidic substance had touched them, but it takes several minutes of choked shrieking until their bodies catch up with this reality. Most of the flesh on their arms and faces are mottled down to the bone by the time they go still.

“Good thing we have plenty of recruits to spare,” William remarks.

<><><><><>

Creeping through the tunnels with only a weakly flickering flashlight is an irritation, and entirely Xavier’s fault.

Mitch turns a corner and spies illumination spilling out from an adjacent tunnel. He follows the light, eventually emerging into a chamber. Two lit pillars frame a large mural which takes up most of one cavern wall.

He approaches it, attention drawn by glittering silvery domes imbedded in the image. “Ah, what’s this?”

“Death.”

Mitch squawks, dropping his flashlight. “Gods!” He whirls around, bag swinging awkwardly behind his back at the movement. “Shaw! You scared the life out of me!”

The man chuckles, stepping out from the shadowed corner he’d been standing in. “Warden.”

Folding his arms, Mitch eyes him warily. “You could’ve mentioned Hamunaptra when you put in your contract bid.”

“Did I not?” Shaw hums. “Speaking of contracts. Tell me about Charles, and Erik.”

Mitch huffs, rolls his eyes. He fishes for his flask, gulps several mouthfuls, then starts offering some commentary. He still thinks it absurd, Xavier’s pandering to his contractor, with comforts and baubles. The man should be issuing demands, not giving up control. “What’s the point in even having a command word, if not to use it?”

Shaw’s expression darkens. _“Command word.”_

Scoffing, Mitch raises his flask again. “Lehnsherr insisted.”

The flask hits the ground when Shaw grabs his wrist. Mitch yelps in surprise, then in pain as his arm hits the edge of the pillar. Shaw doesn’t pay his objection any notice. “‘Like pomegranate wine; the lifeforce you give,’” he muses, eerily calm. “‘My ambition; binding.’”

Mitch fumes. “Leave off!”

He doesn’t feel the heat. But he feels the _burn._

He tries to pull away – but he _can’t_ – and yells as his skin blisters. Shaw releases him. Mitch reels back, cradling his arm.

“Oh, I do apologise.” Shaw pulls a strip of bandage from his pocket. “I didn’t realise how close the flame was. Here, allow me.”

Mitch curses, snarls, but accepts the aid. “Words mean nothing without _payment._ ”

“I know exactly how to make it up to you.” Shaw smiles, claps his hands together. “Death!” Mitch jerks his head around to stare, but Shaw merely gestures to the mural. “A beauty, isn’t it? It was designed as a tribute, to honour Death, one of the ancient enforcers of the city.”

He sniffs, eyeing the rendition of the proud figure, face and hand raised towards the sun. “Never really cared much for ancient history.”

Shaw’s zeal doesn’t waver. “Those adornments? They’re made of adamantium.”

Mitch’s gaze snaps to the mural. _“What?”_ The wall’s _covered_ in the little domes! At Shaw’s encouragement, he uses his knife to pop one out of its indent. The underside of the dome is flat, it sits neatly in the middle of his palm.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they? Adamantium is the most incredible metal.” Shaw peers at the dome, hands folded behind his back. “And I think these particular scarab ornaments will be payment enough for you.”

Mitch eyes the mural hungrily. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

Shaw chuckles. “I’ll leave you to your reward then.” The man backs up, turns on his heel and strolls away.

Putting the metal scarab into his bag, Mitch starts removing another one.

<><><><><>

Though Erik doesn’t really need this break, it’s nice to have people around who care about his well-being enough to insist upon it.

He wonders if all siblings interact as they do, or it’s a testament to how well they know each other’s thoughts. Raven lets Charles finish his sentence before she groans theatrically – Charles is already rolling his eyes before she drapes herself against the wall.

“I can only listen to you talk about mumification processes for so long, brother dear,” she claims, then stages a yawn. “ _Bor-ring._ Are you bored too?”

“Uh. No. I…” He’d be happy to listen to Charles talk, about anything, all day long. “It’s interesting.”

Raven smirks. “Sure it is.”

Charles takes the bait with good humour. “You _know_ I’m a competent academic.”

“An insufferable know-it-all, you mean.”

“ _Some_ people appreciate intelligent conversation, unlike you.”

“Well some people, unlike _you_ , would rather have fun.”

“And which one of us _isn’t_ enjoying ourselves right now?”

Raven draws a deep breath, as if preparing to shout. Instead she shapeshifts. “Enjoying ourselves right now,” the mirror image of Charles mimics.

“Huh.” Erik tilts his head a little, squints at her. Raven’s abilities are impressive. She’s imitating her brother’s likeness flawlessly. And yet… “I can tell the difference.” He can’t put his finger on exactly why. Still, it’s fascinating.

Abandoning their mock argument, both siblings turn to him in surprise – Raven reverting back to her own form as she does. “Okay, I’m officially impressed.” She shakes her whole body out. “As much as I hate to say it, Shaw may’ve been right. Think I’ll put off shifting for a while. Oh! You going to try a projection now?” A pause. “ _Charles._ ”

He realises Charles is still staring at him, with an expression that makes Erik’s face burn hotly. At Raven’s pointed address though, Charles blinks and returns his attention to her. “What? Oh, yes, why not?” Fingers against his temple, his gaze grows slightly unfocused.

The air shimmers a few feet away – Erik feels molecules oscillating as they bind together to form the astral projection. Just like the camel Charles had conjured in the desert, its creation reminds Erik of the magnetic barrier he’d raised last time he was here.

Raven beams. “Lotus!”

Erik leans down, holds out a hand. The transparent mongoose sniffs at his fingers, then nips playfully at them. “Aren’t you incredible.” Charles had described the projections as imprints, echoing into the space they occupy, and Erik can feel what he means – Lotus is generating his own energy field, albeit a mild one.

“Thank you very much,” Charles replies slyly.

Erik grins, but addresses Raven instead. “As in the flower?” Lotus nuzzles his palm, then starts running in circles before dashing off across the breadth of the chamber.

Raven nods, then demands an assessment from Charles about how he and the projection are holding up. “Took a little more astral energy than usual to summon him, but he seems as self-sufficient as ever.” When she asks if this means Shaw lied, Charles shrugs. “Technically, once given form, the projections _become_ self-contained.”

Erik wouldn’t trust Shaw to tell him the colour of the sky, and tells them so.

“Maybe we’re all just better than him,” Raven decides cheerfully. He snorts. “Hey, Erik, hang onto this for me?” She tosses the adamantium coin up into the air. Erik raises a hand, halting its trajectory easily. Raven gives him a thumbs up, then trails after the mongoose.

The coin drifts slowly across to end up in Erik’s hand. He considers the four pictorials, the X that divides them, and offers it to Charles. “I’ve wondered what they mean. The hieroglyphs.” Other than the dual-shen, he’s not familiar with most of the ancient glyphs.

“Well, if you’re truly not tired of hearing me lecture.”

Erik shakes his head. How could he ever be, faced with Charles’s enthusiasm? “Not at all.”

Charles smiles brightly, then taps the glyph in the bottom segment of the X. “This one is ‘man bowing down.’” Erik can see why, given the figure’s posture. “It’s used to represent an act of homage, or submission. You see it a lot in temples, used in worship or rituals.” He indicates the left segment next. “This is a ‘sistrum.’”

“Like the instrument?” The long narrow shape does resemble one.

“You play?”

“They’re metal.” He hasn’t tried in years, and he’s probably not very good anyway.

His self-depreciation doesn’t go unnoticed. _‘I’m sure you’re beautifully skilled, darling.’_ Charles traces his finger around the edge of the coin, and a corresponding shiver travels up Erik’s spine. He’s fairly certain Charles intended this, given the fleeting mischievous twitch to his smile. “The sistrum’s a symbol of power.”

“Well then, I must be good with them.” He grins, chuckling as Charles does. He leans in, reaching across to touch the glyph on the right of the X. “Which goddess is this?” He assumes it’s a goddess – seated regally and wearing some sort of headpiece. When he withdraws his hand, he rests it on his leg, fingers brushing against Charles’s knee.

“Hathor. Technically it’s referred to as ‘goddess with horned sun-disk.’” Charles shifts slightly, leaning more towards Erik. “The sky goddess is associated with many traits; joy, beauty.” Charles pauses to glance at Erik from beneath his lashes. “Sex. Love.” His voice curls around these words in such a way, Erik’s heart skips a beat. “Motherhood. The afterlife.”

Erik swallows. “Versatile goddess.”

“Indeed.” Charles’s free hand finds Erik’s, fingers tracing over the back of it like he’d done with the coin. “And speaking of deities, the top glyph is the ‘divine ruler.’ It’s one of the kingly symbols.”

If Charles is trying to turn him into a useless mess, it’s working. “What’s the difference between this ruler and the other kings?” He’s seen several variations of seated kings.

“See his head piece, the forward protrusion there? The uraeus, the rearing cobra, was commonly worn by the greatest pharaohs and kings as a symbol of their divinity. And he’s holding a flagellum – the whip demonstrated both their authority and virility.” Charles lowers the coin. “The divine ruler actually forms part of the cartouche for the First One.”

“En Sabah Nur?”

A few things happen all at once then.

<><><><><>

To hear his name spoken by this one.

<><><><><>

There’s something – an unseen force, a heaviness in the air, reminiscent of a sudden plunge into water, the disorientation of not knowing which way is up. It presses close – for a moment, Erik’s gravitational sense is displaced.

Charles feels it too – the sudden pressure disrupting his mental barriers, spreading his headache. He scrunches his face up trying to either starve it off, or at least re-contain it solely to himself. Lotus suffers backlash against the sensation – the mongoose arcs its back, screeching as it flickers at the edges, then vanishes entirely. Raven, who’d been reaching for Lotus, recoils back in surprise.

And then a sarcophagus crashes down from above, landing not too far in front of where he and Charles are sitting. They both jump – Charles sends the coin flying; Erik almost topples them both backwards. Raven, spinning around too fast, trips over her own feet and sprawls ungracefully on the ground.

When the cloud of dust, sand, and dirt clears, the odd air pressure is gone too.

“Holy Hathor!” Raven picks herself up, laughs shakily. Once reassured they’re also all right, she asks, “is that a sarcophagus?”

“Adamantium,” Erik notes absently. He hadn’t sensed it clearly enough before – and even now there’s something…unusual about the metal.

“Buried at the base of Anubis.” Charles looks up at the gaping hole left in the wake of its fall, surprised. “They must have been someone extremely important.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Or they did something…terrible.”

<><><><><>

He’s going to make a fortune with these adamantium scarabs.

Mitch fumbles with his satchel, depositing his handful one at a time. He eyes the scarab in the enforcer’s outstretched hand. It’s about twice the size of the rest. He needs it.

There’s a soft thump in the sand as he pulls his hands away from his bag – he’s dropped one of the scarabs but can fetch it in a moment. He reaches up, stretching towards his prize. The tip of his knife only just scapes the edge; he struggles for leverage to pry the adamantium out.

There’s an odd noise, like the cracking of an eggshell, as loud as it is unexpected. Mitch pauses, lowering his knife to look around.

“Who’s there?”

But he’s alone in the chamber.

A sudden sharp pain in his foot makes him cry out, dropping his knife.

It _burns_ , a concentrated white-hot cluster of agony, and it’s _moving_ , travelling up his leg. He hollers, grappling at his pants. What’s happening? Is he blistering again? The sensation reaches his hip; moves to his belly. He tears open his shirt.

The source of the biting pain is a mishappen lump near his belly button, swollen flesh smaller than his palm.

And then it _moves_. His skin ripples like a thin membrane – there’s a _bug_ , burrowing underneath the surface of his skin – he screams and screams, scrambling in desperation at his chest as it keeps moving upwards.

It reaches his shoulder. His eyes roll back, his head lolls to the side. The pain crawls into his neck; across his cheek; up into his temple –

<><><><><>

“There’s no cartouche,” Charles remarks, puzzled, once they’ve finished brushing the sand off the surface of the sarcophagus.

“It _is_ adamantium.” Raven considers this. It’s uncharacteristic for the valuable metal to have been used for such a purpose, not even for the pharaohs themselves. “Maybe it’s a statue?”

Erik peers closely at it, hand hovering just over the surface. “It’s hollow. And there’s definitely something inside, I’d wager a body.” His brow furrows. “The metal is…it’s one seamless piece. Except for here.” He indicates a small, round indent on the front of the sarcophagus.

She perks up. “A lock?” But when she leans in to investigate, she’s quick to pout. “Maybe not.” The indent is smooth and blank.

“Not without an unconventional key,” Erik agrees.

“A key which isn’t a key,” Charles blurts out, realisation dawning. He turns away from them, abruptly starts searching for something in the sand. She and Erik glance at each other, nonplussed. “Erik, where’s the coin?”

It lifts itself into the air, a few feet away. Raven prompts an explanation as Charles retrieves it. She gets a memory in response, of knife-twirler – Wade – on the ship, and his thoughts about a missing key. “He tried to take it from me,” she recalls.

Charles sets the coin into the indent. It fits perfectly flush against the sides and sinks to about half its thickness. He grins triumphantly. “It twists, remember?” He shares his impression of the grooves which had revealed the hidden map, thinks of gears turning. Raven brightens.

Erik nudges Charles. “You want to do the honours then?” The two of them smile at each other. Raven starts counting, wondering what number she’ll reach until they stop gazing into each other’s eyes.

The sound of distant, hysterical screaming makes her blood run cold.

Erik draws his gun, racing towards the main archway as soon as it becomes obvious the screams are drawing closer. Charles immediately follows. Raven plucks the coin back out of the indent before rounding the sarcophagus to head after them.

They barely make it back out into the tunnels when Laurio comes running past, still screaming and clutching at his head with both hands. He doesn’t stop, colliding with the wall at the end of the tunnel. His body crumples lifelessly to the ground. He doesn’t move again.

Raven catches her brother’s sleeve. Charles shakes his head slightly, still staring at the Warden and massaging his temple uneasily. Erik re-holsters his weapon, then goes over to confirm what all of them already know.

<><><><><>

“I should’ve gone with her,” Erik murmurs again, staring at the fire.

Charles shifts closer to him, so their shoulders press together. “She can handle the Lakers.”

“Not the Lakers I’m worried about.”

Raven can handle Shaw too, though Charles has been tracking her, just to be safe. She’d been speaking to Betsy for the most part, collecting another portion of her winnings. “She’s on her way back now anyway.”

She deposits herself on Erik’s other side, clutching a small satchel. “The Lakers lost some workers today. A few of them were melted.”

“…Melted.” Erik repeats.

“Some kind of pressurised acid. Betsy thinks it was a safeguard, left behind by one of the mutant worshippers in ancient times.”

Charles holds his hand out as she pulls a small censer out of the satchel. “It was good of her to lend us what we needed.” While they could make do with what they already have, it’s traditional to use the proper offerings.

“Freelancers usually carry extra.” Raven fishes out a long white feather. “Warren even donated one of his personal spares. I _did_ have to get the salts from Shaw though.” She grimaces apologetically at Erik. “You were right; he’s got about thirty jars.”

_‘Please tell me you’re exaggerating.’_ There’s no good reason for anyone to be carrying such a large quantity of embalmer salts. Charles sets the censer between Erik and the campfire.

She shakes her head, continuing to tell Erik, “he had commentary to offer you, but I decided it was not worth passing along.”

Erik smiles. “You are an excellent person, with very good judgement.”

“But of course.” Raven offers him the jar. “You want to start?” He agrees. She hands each of them a stick of incense. “I think we’re ready then.”

Erik pours half the jar of salts into his palm, then scatters them into the fire and begins the last rites.

“Hail Anubis! God of the Underworld and great embalmer. Under the veil of starlight, we have come before you. We offer rites for the dead, whose vital essence has fallen unto your darkness. We light the fires to honour you. Gather the dead beneath your shroud and weigh their heart.”

Erik lights his incense stick and places it into the censer. Raven recites the next section.

“Hail Maat! Goddess of truth, order, and justice – no falsehood we offer here. We speak not of evils, nor of crimes, nor of wrongs, nor bear witness against the dead. These pronouncements lie upon their heart.”

She carefully drops the feather into the fire, continues speaking as it starts to burn.

“See the dead who come before you. They praise What is Right to you, they mourn What is Wrong to you. If their heart is balanced, safe passage awaits them. If their heavy is heavy, death again shall find them.”

Lighting her incense stick, she places it beside Erik’s. They both turn to look at Charles as he continues into the next verse.

“Hail Thoth! God of wisdom, expression, and judgement – dutiful words we offer. You chronicle the pronouncements of the dead, the measure of their heart.”

He takes the sheet of paper he’d torn from his journal, rolling it up into a scroll, then adds it to the fire. The paper chars easily, the edges flaking into ash.

“Of the dead you ask: who are you, what is your name? You ask: what led your spirit to pass into this realm? You ask: what thoughts dominate your mind? You ask: what desires govern your behaviour? And these answers, you record.”

Charles lights and positions the third incense stick. Erik takes the final verse.

“Hail! Whether revitalised or destroyed, there shall be blazing light akin to the fire of the great bird. Go forth now, O Fallen, to whatever fate awaits you in the afterlife.”

Erik scatters the remaining salts into the fire, concluding the last rites.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the incense burn down. When Raven does speak, it’s to ask what they think killed him.

Charles frowns. “I don’t know. His thoughts were pretty degraded – higher brain functions practically eaten away. Perhaps he also triggered a booby trap of some kind.”

“The city’s _cursed_ ,” Erik drawls, elongating the word. He’s very tired of cursed places, but dislikes having to check over his shoulder for unwanted company more so. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t mourn him.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.” Raven moves to the other side of the fire, pulls the Warden’s bag into her lap. “We were lenient, bestowing him with basic rites, instead of recounting any of his evils.” He certainly wouldn’t have offered them the same respect.

“Wait for Shaw’s last rites,” Erik grumbles as she starts rummaging through the bag. “There’ll be plenty of recounted evils.” Charles touches his arm, trying to project support instead of thinking murderous thoughts. Erik must catch them anyway, because his smile sharpens.

Then Raven yells, jerking her hand out the bag.

_‘Raven?’_ He calls, alarmed. Erik’s already holding a knife at the ready. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

She pouts, peering into the bag. “Broken glass.”

Charles sighs, relieved. “Did you cut yourself?” When she shakes her head, Erik relaxes again and sticks the knife into the sand by his knee.

“Ooh. I do love a good red.” Raven pulls a bottle of wine free, inspects the label. “Shedeh! How on earth did he get his hands on something so exclusive?” She wriggles the cork out and takes a sip, then gives a deeply satisfied hum.

“Don’t hoard,” Charles accuses her, beckoning.

She holds the bottle against her chest. “Maybe I will. I’ve not forgotten about my missing birthday wine.”

Before Charles can protest; one – that was years ago, and two – it really hadn’t been his fault – he’s distracted by Erik growing tense again, turning to look towards the valley. Charles gets a second-hand impression of a well-armed troupe approaching the city; he can’t sense their minds yet.

“We’ve got company.”

<><><><><>

_“Mr Worthington!”_ Kelly wails, running across the Lakers campsite. The Laker-workers scatter to either seize weapons or flee as the cloaked warriors descend into the city. Raven spies Kelly dive into a narrow gap between two stone blocks; Warren leaps off the top of one of the blocks, wings spread. He bowls over one of the cloaked-ones, jamming his knife into their throat.

Erik and Charles both crest the ridge, racing down to join the fray. She decides to take a different approach, sequestering herself behind a fallen pillar. Gun in one hand, wine bottle in the other, Raven surveys the dell.

Betsy parries a cloaked-one’s knife with her psionic one, stabs him with a metal one. “Extemporise!”

“I’m singing,” Warren agrees, using the bulk of his wing to knock a fighter off their feet.

There’s a scream – purposeful, a little pained. Raven spots the hollering-banshee; the ripple of air he displaces hits one of the Laker-workers in the back. When hollering-banshee then doubles over to breathe, his teammate covers him; havoc-blaster lets loose a ring of bright red energy, cutting another laker-worker down. The ring looks blurred at the edges, like Betsy’s knives. Their coordination implies practise in compensating for the dampening effect.

Raven takes a sip of wine, then shoots a cloaked-one who tries to ambush her. Erik’s also moving with practised grace, efficiently dispatching several cloaked-ones. Charles is sticking close to him, using his gun, but she suspects he’s gathering astral energy again. Especially because he’s not the only one shadowing Erik.

Shaw’s _just_ far enough away to pretend otherwise, but she’s not fooled.

A cloaked-one strikes Shaw with a baton. Shaw takes the blow, then snaps his assailant’s neck. The baton flies through the air. Erik moves swiftly – it hits him instead of Charles. Her brother, facing the other way, doesn’t see. Erik glares at Shaw, who smirks at him.

Raven isn’t sure whether Shaw used his powers or not.

“Nicely executed,” she murmurs wryly as she’s catches sight of Wade, relieving a laker-worker of his sword. Despite the injuries he’d suffered, he’s deadly with the dual blades. Raven guns down another cloaked-one. The next one falls before she aims at them; Stryker’s picking them off with his shotgun. At least he deigns not to shoot at her.

It’s the stillness amongst the chaos which catches her eye. A hooded cloaked-one stands on the fringes, sword holstered at their waist, waiting. Raven drinks some more wine. The hooded-one starts walking, a steady pace entirely removed from the fighting around them, passing across the dell untouched. Fascinated, Raven averts her gun.

One of the laker-workers leaps forward, small sabre raised. Raven realises it’s coming her way too late – it connects with her gun, tears it from her grasp. Still clutching her bottle, she rolls out of the way, reaching for the knife Erik had let her palm off him earlier.

The laker-worker swings his sabre again – it’s caught mid-way by the hooded-one’s unsheathed sword. The sabre’s deflected; the sword’s hilt knocks into the worker’s head, knocking him out cold.

Raven sucks in a sharp breath. The hooded-one moves at the sound, swinging around. The blade comes to a halt a few inches near Raven’s neck. “Woah,” she breathes. “Um, if it counts for anything, my gun is on the ground.”

There’s a soft sigh, almost fond. “Raven.”

Her eyes widen. “Do I know you?”

The sword is withdrawn, re-holstered. “We’ve not met,” the woman says as she lowers her hood. “But I’ve Seen you. I’m Irene.”

And now Raven owes her brother so many apologies. Because Irene’s very pretty, and as she looks into the woman’s sightless eyes, she forgets how words work. “So, what’s a place like you doing in a girl like this?” Irene smiles. “Wine?” Raven offers weakly.

Irene accepts the bottle, takes a sip. Raven glances out at the fighting. If Irene’s precognitive, how much did she See about this? “Be careful, these next few days,” Irene says as she hands the bottle back. “Please.”

<><><><><>

Erik identifies the leader of the fighters immediately, makes to intercept him. He ducks under the swipe of bone claws, retaliates with a slash of his knife. They both move back, slowly circling each other. Erik watches the superficial cut across the man’s cheekbone slowly close itself back up.

“Yoo-hoo!”

When Charles turns to track Wade, a knife thrown from an indeterminate direction misses him by inches. And that’s _it_. Erik’s had _enough_ of this. He holds his arms out, reaching with his powers. He finds every single metal weapon on the battlefield, takes hold, and pulls.

The whole assortment – guns, blades, batons, flails – are wrenched out of hands, ascending several feet into the air. Erik holds them there as everyone turns towards him, rotating the weapons to face the same direction. He locks eyes with the leader, who commands his warriors to hold.

“Hey, Logan! Good thing your bones aren’t made of metal, huh?”

“Quiet, Wade.” Logan retracts his claws, regards Erik carefully.

He keeps the metal as steady as he can, despite the strain of doing so. His whole body resonates with it, magnetic energy building and overflowing. He tries to ignore the added stress this causes him, with Shaw so close by, and the heaviness in the air.

<><><><><>

This one.

This one will be very suitable.

<><><><><>

“Oh, very good,” Shaw comments. “Superb.”

Erik grits his teeth, revulsion crawling down his spine. He takes one of the smaller knives and hurls it downwards. It lands an inch away from Shaw’s foot. The man gives a pleased laugh. Erik tries to reign his magnetism back in.

Logan’s brow furrows as the metal shudders. He looks to a woman standing near Raven. “My advice is still the same,” Irene says when she’s prompted, and he nods decisively.

“We will give you tomorrow. But if you’re still in this city the following dawn, you die.”

The man _seems_ sincere. “Charles?”

A brief pause, then Charles confirms, “he’ll honour his word.” So, Erik nods in return.

Wade raises a hand. “Can we have our weapons back now?” Erik gives him a flat look. “That’s a no. Fair enough.”

At Logan’s direction, his group of fighters leave. Erik waits until they’re well clear of the city before he lowers the metal; ensures the weapons are close to the ground and clear of people before relinquishing them, letting them fall the rest of the way.

Then his knees buckle.

Charles catches him as he staggers, one hand bracing his shoulder, the other ending up on his waist. “Are you alright? Erik?”

“Fine.” But he leans more of his weight into Charles than his answer warrants.

The hand on his shoulder moves to his face, turning it so their eyes meet. “You sure? You’re not hurt?”

“Not hurt.” The only reason he doesn’t lean into Charles’s hand is because he can feel Shaw staring intently at them. But he quietly thinks about how much he _wants_ to. Charles smiles, combing his hair back behind his ear, accompanying this with a sense of relief.

“This is proof!” Kelly crows, confidence in his own authority restored now the danger’s past. “The city surely harbours vast amounts of treasure! Why else would they protect it?”

Erik’s vividly reminded of Wendel, the misguided eagerness of the apprentice shortly before meeting his end, and bids for Kelly to fare better. “You claim to be an Egyptologist? I thought _decent_ academics find sites valuable for wisdom, not gold.”

Kelly’s nose wrinkles. “What would a criminal like you know?”

“Oh, please.” Raven rolls her eyes. “Erik’s committed one crime in his life.” Technically, she’s not wrong; signatories are held liable for their contractor’s crimes. “He still knows more than you.”

“Erik _is_ right.” The endorsement is undercut by the fact it comes from Shaw. “One glyph could be worth more than a cavern of riches. And these warriors are the sort to value power.”

“Your unwanted opinion is noted,” Erik retorts. “Now stop talking to me.”

Shaw ignores him, of course. “It’s no wonder they obeyed you. Perhaps it would make sense for our parties to maintain a truce during the nights, hmm?”

Charles’s hand tightens on his waist, promptly derailing his thoughts; Charles seems too focused on Shaw to notice. “I didn’t realise we were still fighting. Did I not make myself clear enough, earlier?”

“Sure did,” Warren contributes helpfully, wearing a grin designed to stir up trouble. “You could do to cajole Erik elsewhere again; he’s looking a bit faint.”

“I’m fine,” Erik protests, faintly, as Charles’s attention returns to him.

“He could probably do with a lie down,” Warren suggests, then snickers when Betsy jams her elbow into his ribs. Shaw suggests Warren offers to start taking care of the dead.

“Whew. I could do with another drink,” Raven says, as the three of them return to their campsite. “You?” Charles nods emphatically. “Erik?”

He considers. Decides to take her up on the offer.

<><><><><>

As it turns out, Erik is a lightweight.

He giggles as he pilfers the bottle away from the sleeping Raven. “I’ve never had anything to drink before.”

Charles doesn’t need to ask why. Erik’s looking pliant and exposed as he has another drink. “I think you’ve had enough,” he says with a laugh, which prompts more giggling. But Erik willingly turns over the wine, smiling widely as he watches Charles drink some.

Erik starts humming to himself, a tune which reflects his thoughts about a gently flowing river. “‘Sleep and remember my last lullaby. So I’ll be with you when you dream.’”

“That’s a beautiful song.”

Erik’s smile turns wistful. “My mama used to sing it to me.” He tips his head back, looking up at the stars. “I remember the words and the tune, but not her voice.”

Charles’s heart aches for him, in more ways than one. “I could…try and help with that?” He swallows at the hopeful spark this invokes. “When we’re both sober though.”

Erik nods thoughtfully. “That’s very smart. You’re very smart. An excellent librarian, knowing all sorts of things.” He touches his brooch. “An excellent signatory too. But do you know what you are most of all?”

“Tell me,” Charles says fondly.

“You’re a good friend.”

“So are you.”

Erik beams, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “I think. I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The shy confession takes Charles’s breath away. _‘Oh, darling.’_ And Erik’s mind lights up at the endearment.

_‘Dear-heart, dear-heart.’_ “Is it _later_ yet?” Erik leans towards him. “I want to kiss you. I’ve been thinking about it.” His mind is suddenly full of those thoughts. “I _really_ want to kiss you, Charles.”

Charles’s heart starts racing. “Come here then.”

But as Erik moves closer, the toll of the day catches up with him all at once. He falls asleep almost instantly, dropping across Charles’s lap. “Oh, my darling.” Charles smiles and starts stroking his hair. “Me too.”

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Egyptian Hieroglyphs [as per Gardiner’s Sign List]:  
> EH: As featured on the coin – [A16] ‘Man bowing down’ <> [Y8] ‘Sistrum’ <> [C9] ‘Hathor: Goddess with horned sun-disk’ <> [A42] ‘King with uraeus and flagellum’
> 
> Egyptian deities:  
> ED: Anubis is also an embalmer, associated with mummification.  
> ED: The goddess Ammit was not worshipped, but instead was an embodiment of fear. She’s associated with a lake of fire, into which unworthy hearts are cast.  
> ED: Hathor also has a vengeful aspect, protecting her male counterpart (the god Ra) from his enemies.  
> ED: The goddess Maat personifies the concepts of truth, balance, morality, and justice.  
> ED: The god Thoth, whose symbol is a papyrus scroll, is a patron of wisdom, writings, magic, arts, and judgement.
> 
> ‘To hear your voice is pomegranate wine to me; I draw life from hearing it’ – excerpt from an ancient Egyptian poem, ‘The Flower Song.’  
> In Ancient Egypt, pomegranates were symbols of prosperity, ambition; in Ancient Israel/Judaism, symbols of fertility. The most well-known lore about pomegranates comes from Ancient Greece, in the story of Persephone – consuming one bound her to the Underworld for periods at a time.
> 
> Brainwaves are known as ‘neural oscillations’ – the brain generates electrical fields when active.
> 
> The lotus was an important flower in Ancient Egypt, often regarded as a symbol of creation and rebirth. The white lotus was also a symbol of strength and power; the blue lotus was also known for its psychoactive properties (meaning it was a psychedelic aphrodisiac).
> 
> Arabic is read from right-to-left, bottom-to-top. Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs can be read from either left or right – the anthropomorphic glyphs will always be facing the starting direction.
> 
> The last rites were inspired by two spells from the Book of the Dead [the historical collection of prayers, not the mythological book which appears in The Mummy and this story].  
> Spell 44 – to prevent a second death in the Underworld.  
> Spell 125 – the Weighing of the Heart. This prayer was to be recited by the deceased at the onset of their judgement, usually conducted by Anubis. During the judgement, the deceased’s heart was weighed against a feather of Maat. If their heart and the feather were balanced, Thoth recorded the result and presented them to the god Osiris for safe passage. (Osiris was also associated with resurrection.) If their heart was heavier than the feather, Ammit devoured it, which permanently destroyed the deceased’s soul.
> 
> Shedeh was an ancient Egyptian drink made from red grapes (not pomegranates, as originally thought) and used as a religious offering. It was also often cited in romantic poetry, in association with a lover’s voice.
> 
> The lullaby makes a return – these lines are also from ‘Deliver Us.’
> 
> -


	8. Heed thy soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No harm ever came from opening a chest… or reading a book…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Books are amazing. I love books. But I don’t recommend reading ancient languages aloud whilst in a cursed city that’s being haunted by a restless god.
> 
> As I mentioned at the end of chapter one; in Ancient Egyptian mythology, there are nine components to the soul – these are: body; spirit; heart; will; personality; shadow; force; name; and mind. I shall elaborate further in the end notes.
> 
> Shaw is so creepy. So very creepy.

<><><><><>

He jolts awake all at once, one hand bracing against his bag as he sits up, the other holding his knife out in front of him. Tension thrums through him, and the cause immediately apparent.

“Sleep well?”

Erik quickly assesses the situation. The sun’s already risen; Charles isn’t nearby, but Raven and her coin are, and not too far out of sight; Shaw’s standing beside the pillar – but not leaning on it, so he’s not been there long. Erik turns the knife in the man’s direction and scrambles to his feet.

Shaw smiles. “Good to see your instincts haven’t diminished during our time apart.”

One day, he will get to stab Shaw in the face.

When Erik stays silent, Shaw isn’t disappointed like he’s expecting. Instead he’s pleased, like Erik’s done exactly as predicted. “What’s wrong? You’re not usually at a loss for…” Shaw takes a single step towards him. “ _Words._ But it can be difficult to find the right one. When you need it.”

He knows, Erik realises with mounting terror. Shaw knows about Charles’s command word.

“Erik!”

Raven’s overly cheerful voice precedes her running up from behind and leaping up onto his back. He carries her weight easily, supporting her legs when she wraps them around him. She props her chin atop his head.

“Sorry I overslept.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you didn’t.” She makes herself comfortable, one hand splayed on his chest. She’ll be able to feel the panicked racing of his heart. “Still plenty of morning ahead of us.” She pauses. “What do _you_ want? Leave Erik alone.”

Shaw’s look of mild amusement strongly implies she’s being unreasonable. “I was looking for _you_ , dear girl.” He pulls out a small pouch, jangles it. “My contribution towards your winnings.”

Raven clings tighter. “Erik, would you?” She moves her hand, wiggling her fingers in Shaw’s direction, to clarify her request. Erik obliges, tugging on the gold coins – Shaw makes him pull twice, but otherwise doesn’t put up any resistance – and the pouch floats slowly up into Raven’s waiting hand. “You’re such an excellent contractor.”

“You must consider yourself lucky to have found me.”

She laughs gleefully. “Absolutely. As a token of my appreciation, you can keep the gold from the other two Lakers.” There’s a deliberate beat, in which Erik wishes he could see her expression, because it prompts Shaw to fold his hands together – as he does when he’s conserving energy, with intent to strike later. “And you know, _Charles_ will have a list. Of ways to show you his _appreciation._ ”

Unlike his impulse control, Erik’s memory of the previous night remains unimpeded by the small amount of wine he’d drunk. “I don’t doubt it.” The sense of elation from Charles upon hearing how he felt; he’d known it would taste even brighter. But he doesn’t want to linger on these thoughts under Shaw’s gaze. “We should go find your brother, right now.”

Erik turns on his heel, walks away from Shaw, without bothering to let Raven down first. She laughs again, rearranging herself for greater stability; he adjusts his grip accordingly as she unwinds her legs, folding his hands under her knees instead.

“You going to carry me the whole way?”

“If you like.”

She’s quiet until they’re out of Shaw’s sight. He feels her huff against his neck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone. I was only gone two minutes; he must’ve been waiting. Ugh. Loitering around, like a vulture.”

“Not your fault.” The alternative – Shaw removing Raven, one way or another – would’ve been far worse.

She hums. “I’d fight him for you.”

_“Please don’t do that.”_ He emphasises what a horrible idea this is by pinching her leg.

“Oi. And I _won’t_. I’m not _that_ idiotic. I just wanted to let you know, I’d be willing to.”

The sudden rush of affection is hard to put into words, so he just thanks her.

<><><><><>

The skirmish last night cost them most of their slave workers, and this remaining handful are clearly useless, needing Kelly’s constant instructions. Cowards too, if they were quick enough to escape before he’d turned his shotgun on the ones who were fleeing.

“Careful, careful,” Kelly snaps as they lower the rectangular chest they’d retrieved from the plinth. The Egyptologist kneels in front of it, dusting sand from the surface of the lid. William moves forward as the workers retreat to huddle by the cavern wall. Braddock and Worthington move closer too, crouching either side of Kelly.

Shaw, leaning against the archway nearby, watches on with interest. He offers no comment, merely continues rolling a gold coin back and forth across his fingers.

Worthington tilts his head, examining the symbols on the side of the chest. William leans over him for a better look, squinting rather than retrieving his reading glasses. The top half of the decorative rectangle is lined with an array of glyphs. Underneath these, are four figures who seem to be performing some sort of ritual.

“Think I’ve found the curse,” Worthington tells Braddock.

William scoffs. “Curse?”

“Warning,” Braddock rephrases, impassively. “Beware those who tread here, lest you awaken the wrath of the gods, that sort of thing. Typical motifs, especially in the pharaoh’s tombs.”

Kelly scowls at her. “Whatever tombs you’ve raided in the past, girl, _this_ city is sacred ground. The ancient rites still hold strong to this day.”

Braddock rolls her eyes at the audible jealousy in the Egyptologist’s voice. William suspects she’s seen more tombs than Kelly has. “Well, you’re the expert, Bob. Tell us what this ‘curse’ says.”

He steps aside so Worthington can shift out of Kelly’s way. Kelly straightens his glasses, then touches his fingers to the glyphs as he reads.

><><

Revelation shall befall the soul of whom-so-ever opens this chest.

Death shall come on swift wings;

War holds itself an acceptable loss;

Pestilence erodes all other reasoning;

Famine consumes organs and fluids.

These relics are bound by sacred oath to the one who is undead. Should he arise, the Horsemen will deem to be marked with his favour. And in so doing his body and force shall regenerate, and his soul shall be invincible.

><><

When Kelly finishes reading, the torchlight all around the cavern shudders, as if disturbed by a non-existent breeze. Braddock gets to her feet, purple sparks at her fingertips, anticipating trouble. All the workers spook, scrambling to flee down the tunnel.

“Superstitious fools,” Kelly mutters, only after the torches stabilise, the light in the cavern returning to normal.

William doesn’t draw his revolver, but does keep his hand resting on it. “Weren’t _you_ preaching about sacred ground and ancient rites not a moment ago?” This earns indignant spluttering.

“As long as we don’t disturb the undead, we’ll be alright,” Worthington jokes, which only sours the Egyptologist’s expression further.

Braddock blows out her sparks, rests her hands casually on her hips. “I suppose you won’t be wanting any of the treasure then?”

Kelly fumes. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing. And I deserve first pick of any relics we find!” He looks expectantly at William and gestures to the chest.

“What, you can’t open it yourself?”

<><><><><>

He quickly slips into the tunnel, makes his way back towards the surface. None of the Lakers notice him leave.

<><><><><>

The shadows in the cavern seem to press in as they move into position around the chest.

“Take that side,” Stryker orders, even though Warren’s already doing just that. While annoyed, he doesn’t bother pointing this out, merely adjusts his hold.

“Ready?”

Together, they haul the heavy stone upwards – it takes a moment for the lid to shift, the seal resistant after thousands of years of inactivity. Warren grits his teeth. Stryker grunts; Kelly huffs impatiently. Betsy leans in, watching closely.

Finally, it moves.

As they open the chest, a billow of dust so fine it’s more like smoke pours out from within it. The lid crashes to the ground as all four of them jerk back.

<><><><><>

She wonders what this sarcophagus must be worth as Erik manoeuvres it into an upright position.

Her brother’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This is exciting. Isn’t this exciting? I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Meet a corpse?”

Raven sniggers at Erik’s dry comment, and at Charles reaching up to tug playfully on his earlobe in retaliation. Erik’s mild confusion at the gesture only amuses her further.

Charles gestures at the sarcophagus. “Look – I’ve never seen sacred spells like these before. It’s almost as though this individual was condemned to a state of non-being.”

She doesn’t doubt his translation, but such a thing’s unheard of. Funerary rites were – and still are – an essential bridge between life, spirit, and beyond. Why would anyone risk their own soul to cast such a curse? And upon who?

Raven slots her coin into the indent. “Shall we meet our mystery mummy then?” She turns it – the top half of the coin twists, and there’s a corresponding metal clunk, like a latch unlocking. She lets go, backstepping as a seam begins to appear along the sides of the sarcophagus, separating back and front.

The three of them hold their breath, waiting in anticipation for the ends of the seam to meet. When they do, there’s a hiss of air. Then the front of the sarcophagus is flung forwards, toppling to the ground. From within the metal coffin, a corpse looms out towards them.

They all scream, scrambling backwards.

The wizened corpse hangs motionless in the open sarcophagus.

“Ugh! I _hate_ when that happens.” She’d complain further, but notices Charles and Erik are clinging to each other a little more than is strictly necessary. She grins instead and thinks loud thoughts about the _scandal_ , the _audacity_ , the _terrible influence_ upon the _delicate innocents_ who are present.

Her brother pretends not to hear; but _does_ actually adjust his hold on Erik to something more casual; and as he frowns at the corpse, his observation _is_ genuine. “Mummies aren’t supposed to look like that.”

“No,” she agrees. The three-thousand-year-old corpse is nothing but remnants of organic matter clinging to bones – but that layer of residual tissue looks like it’s still actively decomposing. Which should be impossible after so many centuries. “Why is it so…”

“…Shiny?” Erik eyes the body warily. His thoughts must be as uneasy as his tone, given the tender way Charles needlessly straightens out his jacket collar.

Raven turns her gaze aside as he brushes his fingers along Erik’s jaw, casts her attention towards the lid of the sarcophagus instead. She’s expecting an immaculate interior, so approaches when this isn’t the case, crouching beside the lid to get a closer look. “There’s something inscribed here.”

“In the metal?” Charles sounds as incredulous as she feels.

“I didn’t even know you could do that to adamantium.” Embossing is one thing – done during casting – but these markings appear to have been applied separately, later. She glances over her shoulder at Erik. “Could you do that?”

“Don’t know. Wouldn’t know, until I try.” Erik’s frowning at the lid. “I’ve never handled any adamantium other than the coin before. I’ve been told stories about the metal…” he trails off. He sounds far away as he then states, “this person was entombed alive.”

Her eyes widen. “How do you know?”

He shrugs. Then he shivers. Charles slides his arm around Erik’s waist, and Erik leans into him. The contact looks to help him regain his focus. “What does the inscription say?”

It’s a refreshing change, to have a member of an excavation team express casual belief in her capabilities – most people she’s worked with were always surprised she can read hieroglyphs. She may not have quite the extensive vocabulary as Charles does, but she certainly knows enough to be considered fluent.

“Death is only the beginning,” she reads.

All of them turn, as one, to look at the mummy. The eyeless sockets suddenly seem shadowed with menace.

<><><><><>

Clearing her throat, Betsy waves away the lingering wisps of innocuous dust. As always, Warren helps with a few more beats of his wings. “Watch where you aim that thing next time, Stryker.” She nudges the lid with her toe. “Nearly crushed my foot.”

Stryker grunts in acknowledgement, then they all turn their attention back to the chest. Inside it, atop a plain wooden board, lies a square cloth-wrapped bundle. Kelly retrieves it; she, Warren, and Stryker all lean forward in anticipation as he unwraps it.

“By the gods.” Kelly’s voice quivers, his hands trembling. “It _does_ exist.”

“…That’s _it?_ A book?”

Betsy shares an exasperated look with Warren at Stryker’s expense. Typical soldier. The man has no patience.

“Not just any book.” Kelly doesn’t take his eyes off the black tome, enamoured by it. “This. Is the Book of the Dead. Priceless, amongst intellectuals. I don’t expect any of you to appreciate it.”

“Some of us prefer to find more traditional treasure,” Warren comments, inspecting the inside of the chest. “And to that end – aha!” He pries out the wooden board, revealing a compartment beneath it. He looks up at her. “Always another next step, eh, Psylocke?”

Betsy returns the grin. “No peace for the wicked.” She’s glad to have him along on this treasure hunt. There’s no one she’d rather partner with.

“Now _this_ is more like it.” From the chest, Stryker pulls out a sword about the length of his arm. Blade and hilt both gleam; the red metal is untarnished by age. He steps back, performs a few swings before declaring his satisfaction with the weapon.

Warren tilts his head towards the chest, silently offering her the next choice. Betsy pats his wing, then leans in for a look. The sharp white catches her eye – she picks up the crown.

The metal circlet is a thick band of laurel leaves, with finely raised detailing on the outside, and polished smooth inside. She lets the weight of it sit in her hands a moment, admiring the beauty and simplicity of the design. It looks exceptionally bright against the shifting shadows within the cavern.

“Check this out.” Warren plucks another relic from the chest, brandishes it. “A scythe!”

This regains Kelly’s attention. “Hardly,” comes the patronising response. “That’s a sickle.”

The scythe is pale, colourless enough to give an almost washed-out effect to the metal. Warren tests the edge of it with his thumb, pleased when it draws blood. “Scythe,” he insists.

“Let the boy call it what he wants,” Stryker tells Kelly, when the Egyptologist looks set to argue further. So instead, the man grumbles about whether they’ve failed to leave anything for him.

Betsy’s sick of his whining. “Other than the book you’ve already claimed?”

Kelly pays her no mind, exclaiming triumphantly as he discovers a final item within the chest. It becomes obvious why she hadn’t spotted it; the scales are as black as coal, with a similar looking texture. She’s never seen metal look so organic before, and she’s mildly surprised it doesn’t leave smudges against his palms as he handles it.

“Four relics; four of us,” Stryker declares, admiring his sword again. “Worked out fairly well, if you ask me.”

<><><><><>

Having declined the offer to join his fellow Lakers by the fire, Robert sets his scales to one side and turns his attention to the book. The obsidian metal seems to glitter underneath the night sky, despite the shadow being cast over his section of the campsite. The secrets this book holds – soon to be his, and his alone.

He tries to unfasten the clamps that hold the book shut, but there’s no latch he can see. When it’s clear his fiddling is proving useless, he props it upright on his lap instead and tries to pull the covers apart, to force the clamps to fail. Despite his straining, the book doesn’t budge at all.

Movement catches his eye – he looks up to find Xavier standing nearby, staring. Robert immediately ceases his efforts, tries to make it look like he’s casually leaning on the book instead.

Xavier’s expression is difficult to read.

“What?” Robert snaps at him.

Calmly, Xavier merely replies, “it’s likely a key is needed to open that book.” Then he walks off, heading towards the campfire, to join the rest of his team.

Robert scoffs. He holds the book out in front of him again, inspecting it from all angles. There’s not even a keyhole! There’s an indent on the front cover – where one would expect the receptacle for a key to be – but it’s flawlessly smooth.

He’d almost worried Xavier had perhaps recognised the book, but clearly the young man knows nothing about this ancient treasure. So much for his academic qualifications.

Besides, Robert doesn’t need his advice. Only those with great intelligence and discerning wisdom would be capable of unlocking the mysteries of this city. And since he’s the only one duly qualified, he’ll manage just fine on his own.

<><><><><>

Warren’s heard stories about the fearsome magenta contractor.

They say he once infiltrated a private gallery, stole an heirloom, then spent eight hours successfully evading the highly trained battalion guarding the collection. They say forty mercenaries were hired to kill him after a business deal went bad, and he slaughtered all of them instead. They say he bought down an entire boardroom of bankers and academics with nothing more than three words.

There’s no doubt in Warren’s mind that all these stories are true.

But it’s incredible to consider this contractor is the very same man currently gazing at his signatory, utterly besotted. It was unexpected, realising this softer side of Erik also exists.

Raven approaches, clearing her throat to get Warren’s attention. “Do you mind if I help?” She gestures to Betsy, who’s currently preening his right wing. When Warren permits her, Raven sits on his other side. Combing her fingers through the feathers of his left wing, she starts mimicking Betsy. “Your wings are gorgeous.”

He grins. “Oh, believe me, I know.” He’s very proud of his wings. The reverence Raven’s showing each of his feathers suggests she understands something of the importance of his letting her handle them. Other than Betsy, he doesn’t tend to allow others to help him preen. The act requires either a great deal of trust or respect, and he’s often short on both.

Erik’s expression shuts down as Shaw and Stryker arrive. On the far side of the campfire, Shaw sets down the small crate he’s carrying and starts pulling out beers. Betsy voices her approval, then reminds Stryker – again – he’s yet to settle his portion of the bet with Raven.

Grumbling, Stryker tosses two pouches at Raven, claiming his gold and Kelly’s. Once she’s verified the amount, she throws them on towards Erik. Stryker goes back to marvelling over his new sword, smirking as he catches Erik eyeing it with an unreadable look on his face. “A weapon fit for a true warrior.”

Shaw comes round, handing out beers. “Uniquely valuable relics, as promised.”

“Shame you missed out.” Stryker’s tone implies the opposite.

“I’ll have treasure in my hands soon enough.” Shaw offers the last beer he’s holding to Erik. It’s already open, Warren notices, and was the only one which happened to be so.

Without breaking eye contact with his former signatory, Erik reaches up and takes it. Still staring, he turns the bottle upside down and pours the entire contents onto the sand. Despite the tragic waste of beer, Warren can’t fault him for it.

Shaw merely shakes his head, chuckling softly. He sits near the crate and fishes out another for himself.

“Here, Lehnsherr,” Stryker calls when Erik’s gaze returns to the weapon. “Shaw’s told us you’re an expert swordsman.” He tilts the hilt towards Erik in offering. “Let’s see.”

Erik casts a narrow glance at an unphased Shaw. “Expert seems an exaggeration.” But he gets up, crosses over to Stryker, and takes hold of the sword.

“Meaning it’s actually understated,” Charles contributes knowingly. “By all means, impress us with your talents, my friend.”

Erik’s lip curls. He runs through some basic drills. Warren wouldn’t claim to be an expert either – he prefers more compact weapons, like his scythe, or ranged ones like Betsy’s projectile knives – but Erik’s form looks superior to Stryker’s.

Stryker seems to think so too, because he’s scowling. “All right, enough, contractor. I’ll have my weapon back now.”

The sword cuts through the air one final time, then Erik hands it back to the man. Shaw claps his hands together, once, which goes unheard beneath Charles’s confirmation he’s impressed. Erik thanks his current signatory.

Betsy extracts her hands from Warren’s feathers. “Speaking of your expertise. Can you identify this metal for me?” She presents her crown. Erik doesn’t approach, merely tilts his head as he considers it from a distance.

Stryker sneers as he takes a seat, laying his sword across his lap and accepting a beer from Shaw. “Afraid to handle something so delicate? Not surprised. You’d probably break it.”

Erik raises his eyes to the stars, clearly asking the gods for patience. In a bored and flat tone, he responds, “adamantium is indestructible.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Your crown’s made of adamantium,” Erik says. “All your relics are.” Warren almost drops his scythe in astonishment. Stryker makes a strangled sound of incredulity, then grins widely. “Kelly’s too.”

“Astounding,” Shaw murmurs, before drinking from his beer.

Betsy stares at her crown with wide eyes. “But. They’re different colours.” Erik spreads his arms, indicating his lack of explanation.

Warren admires his scythe with a whole new appreciation. Legends say weapons made from adamantium make their wielder invulnerable, for they cannot be bested by any other type of weapon. “Guess we’re winning _this_ race,” he teases Raven. “Our priceless relics are way better than the gooey mummy we heard you guys found.”

Raven’s poker face makes him wonder though. There may be something more interesting about a stone coffin and its occupant than he assumes. Then she casts a distrustful side-eye towards Shaw. “Heard from who?”

“Oh!” Charles turns to retrieve the cloth he’d been carrying earlier. “That’s not all we found. Look at these.” Erik returns to his side, resuming his seat as Charles unwraps the cloth. Warren cranes his neck for a better look. “Scarab skeletons.”

Warren runs a thumb along the side of his scythe. Shadows play across the campfire. An impulse he doesn’t quite understand takes his fancy. “Here, pass us one.”

Charles plucks one out from the handful and throws it to him. It’s more intact than Warren expected for its age, the corpse well preserved. The roughly dome-shaped body is shrivelled, dried out in the way of mummified remains. It has no limbs, the legs long turned to dust. The large pincers extending from its jaw, on the other hand, still feel sharp against his thumb.

“Flesh eaters,” Charles elaborates, most likely for Stryker’s benefit – although, maybe for Erik’s, given how attentive the contractor is to his words. “They were inside the sarcophagus. Looks like our mystery mummy was still alive when they started eating.”

That’s… fascinating, in a morbid sort of way.

Betsy catches Warren’s wrist, pulling his hand nearer so she can get a look at the husk. “The scarabs ate them alive?”

“Quite slowly,” Charles confirms. “Scarabs were known to survive for years, feasting on the flesh of a corpse.”

“Make a note,” Shaw suggests wryly, gesturing to Charles’s journal. “When faced with ancient carnivorous bugs: run. Or be devoured.”

Stryker laughs. Erik shifts a little closer to Charles, who nods like this is a reasonable statement rather than a thinly veiled dig. “I thought that obvious,” he replies lightly. “Those would be your only two options.”

“I guess mystery mummy must’ve really upset some folks,” Raven comments as she tugs free a loose feather, passes it to Warren. “Wonder what they did.”

Erik tosses a scarab skeleton into the fire. “Whatever they did, they were important.” A pause. “No one goes to that much trouble for someone insignificant.”

“How very dramatic you are.” Shaw sets his bottle down. He pulls a coin out from his pocket, starts rolling it across his fingers. “Perhaps they were simply a little amorous with a devoted thrall.”

Erik abruptly rearranges himself so he’s lying on his back, head propped on Charles’s thigh. Amused, Betsy murmurs, “he looks comfortable.” Raven snickers quietly.

“Learn anything else from the spells on the sarcophagus?”

Charles sets the cloth aside so he can start stroking Erik’s hair instead. Warren smirks. If these two aren’t already involved _personally_ as well as contractually, he’ll pluck his own feathers out. Answering Erik’s question, Charles claims his inspection revealed the sarcophagus had been inlayed with the _hom-dai_ rites.

Warren’s not heard of it before. Stryker asks before he does. “What’s the _hom-dai?”_

Each word of Raven’s response is pronounced as theatrically as possible. “The worst of all ancient curses.”

Charles agrees. “There’s never been any evidence of the rites actually having been enacted before. The _hom-dai_ was a violation upon one’s very soul. It condemns one to wander the celestial realms, forever lost, unable to find rest. To say the rites were feared would be an understatement.”

Again, Raven’s contribution is done with dramatic effect. “And thus, it’s said should a soul bound by the _hom-dai_ return to the physical realm, their resurrection shall also bring forth the Ten Plagues of Egypt.” In a normal tone, she adds, “You know; blood; darkness; raining fire.”

“Scary,” Stryker mocks. He motions for another beer, and when Shaw passes it to him, he asks the man, “since this is turning into story time, any other literature pieces to recount?”

Warren doubts Stryker has any interest in hearing about more ancient literature. But warmongery between Shaw and Erik? That’s far more likely.

“I always have stories.” Shaw stills the gold coin, starts stroking circles over it with his thumb. “And there are important lessons to be learned from ancient literature. Speaking of magic and fire, I have the perfect tale. One of your favourites, Erik.” The man pauses, but Erik doesn’t speak up, so Shaw starts recounting the story.

><><

Hence told, the Second Miracle of King Khufu’s Court.

In the second season of King Khufu’s reign, there lived the high priest Ubaoner. Gifted with the element of fire, he furthered the peace and prosperity of the kingdom and was beloved by all at his temple.

The high priest was aided in his duties by his wife and protector: Carnelian, the most beautiful woman in all the land. As delightful as a red sunset; as vibrant and fierce as blood; as passionate as burning flames. All who looked upon her desired her, and none save for Ubaoner was allowed to touch her.

On the day of the solstice, the high priest found his wife upon a balcony terrace, looking out towards the walled courtyard where her private garden lay. Something about her manner conveyed yearning.

“What do you crave, my Carnelian?”

“For now, nothing.” She turned from the view to look upon him instead, then spoke of their work in the temple. “The offerings today were bountiful.”

She was a vision of ample offerings herself. “Come. Join me in our chambers.”

His wife hesitated. “Not tonight, husband.”

The high priest left her to her musings, perturbed. Never before had she denied him anything.

And yet, it continued. For seven days, the high priest entreated his wife to return to their chambers, and for seven days, she denied him. After such a lengthy period of refusal, the high priest had expended his patience and confronted one of her attendants. Upon interrogation, the attendant confessed to the truth, confirming his suspicions.

His wife had taken to meeting with the visiting chief lector; she had also taken him as a lover.

Displeased by the lector’s ambition and his wife’s misjudgement, the high priest vowed to end the affair. Ubaoner concealed himself within the secret passage into his wife’s garden, which only he knew of, in order to observe the clandestine meeting.

Seated upon the grass and illuminated by torchlight, his wife and her lover talked as they feasted on fruits together. The lector spoke of his home and all he could provide for her in the future. Carnelian wistfully voiced her wish to share in such a simple life. He offered her a segment of pomegranate, which she ate from his hand – the lector’s fingers brushed against her chin.

Enraged, the high priest emerged from the secret passage. Using his gift, he drew all the flames from the torches and fashioned them into the form of a crocodile. It roared as it came to life, and with a snap of its fiery jaws, devoured the lector.

His wife screamed as her lover burned. She fell to her knees before her husband and repented her actions. As the flaming crocodile neared them, she begged to be forgiven for her foolishness. The high priest set forth the terms of her penance, to which she agreed.

He asked again, “what do you crave, my Carnelian?”

This time, she replied as she ought to. “Only you, always.”

The penance was enacted in that very same garden. Ubaoner found his success was as sweet as the taste of pomegranate on his wife’s lips, as the fragrance which had sunk into her skin. Satisfied by the repentance, he forgave her.

To ensure she would not forget, he marked her. His hands wreathed with flames, he set them to her flesh, just above her knees. At the pain, Carnelian screamed. Once it had passed, she wept, for she was humbled to have been absolved of her mistakes.

In the years that followed, the high priest continued to further the fortunes of the temple; Carnelian remained by his side, her devotion unquestionable. Never again did she stray from her husband. And together, they had all that they craved from life.

><><

Shaw flips the coin into the air, catches it in his fist to emphasise the tale’s conclusion.

Warren’s sensing a theme with his stories.

It’s a good thing fire isn’t Erik’s mutation – cursed city or not, Warren reckons the contractor would’ve have set the very stars ablaze with how furiously he’s glaring up at them. Erik’s voice is dripping with malice when he speaks. “Find me a crocodile; I’ll feed your dismembered corpse to it. Until then, you can take that coin and shove it up your –”

“Asking seems redundant,” Charles interjects smoothly. “But I’m guessing you don’t like that story at all.”

Warren manages to stifle his laughter, but his wings still quiver with it. Raven hides her own laughter by ducking behind a shield of feathers.

“I hate that story.” It only takes Charles’s fingers combing through his hair again to settle Erik back down. “Carnelian and her lover should have run away together.”

“They’d not have gotten very far, if they’d tried.” Shaw then asks Charles for his opinion of the tale.

Charles’s smile is sharper than any prison affirmer Warren’s dealt with. “Constructively speaking, it’s not the best retelling I’ve heard. Emphasis in all the wrong places.” The smile softens as he looks down at Erik. “Personally, I prefer the following tale in the collection.”

“I didn’t know there were more. But then, there _is_ more than one season.” Erik pauses. He suddenly grins up at Charles, whose telepathy must be working well enough, even inside the city. “Will you tell the story you like?”

“Of course.” And Charles proceeds to do so.

><><

Hence told, the Third Miracle of King Khufu’s Court.

In the third season of King Khufu’s reign, there lived the scribe Djadjaemankh, known as Jae. Gifted with control over the element of water, the scribe’s talents were so highly regarded he was given the honour of working for the royal advisor, Lord Snefuru.

On the day before the equinox, the royal advisor gathered the best entertainers in the land aboard his riverboat – artists; dancers; singers. The scribe was delighted to attend, as he knew one of the dancers, having taught her letters some seasons before.

The dancer, Malachite, possessed grace beyond any other performer in the land. Her ribbons flowed like a river’s current; her movements as crisp and delicate as falling leaves. The kohl applied to her face – shadows around her eyes and a line across her nose – was a deep green. It matched the jewel she wore in a pendant around her neck.

“You are a force of nature, dear Malachite.”

“And you, a talented wordsmith.” She congratulated the scribe on his latest writings, then admired the festivities. “The artworks are beautiful.”

“Yes,” he agreed, still looking at her. “Shall we pose for one together?”

The dancer, elated by the suggestion, accepted the invitation. They spent much of the day together, enjoying each other’s company, and only parted when the royal advisor called upon her to dance.

And dance, she did. For seven melodies, the dancer performed faultlessly to great applause and adoration, from the scribe and also the assembled crowd. Then one of the singers, jealous of Malachite’s prowess, deigned to trip the dancer. As she fell, the chain of her necklace did break.

Malachite cried out in sorrow as her pendant fell into the river.

The scribe helped her to her feet. He was glad to find she had suffered no bodily harm, though knew her heart ached. Outraged by the singer’s actions, the scribe advocated for instant removal from the festivities. Concurring, the royal advisor had his guards escort the singer away. The royal advisor then offered Malachite her choice of jewellery from the royal treasury, as a substitute for the piece she had lost.

The dancer declined the offer, stating the pendant had been precious to her. A gift from her mother, and her mother before her, it had granted her protection against evil. Stricken with grief, she declared she would not dance again without it.

Jae could not bear to see her so distraught and vowed to retrieve the pendant for her. Using his gift, he raised a sphere of water from the river and fashioned it into the form of a turtle. It dove, the waters parting around the animal as it headed for the bottom of the riverbed.

When the turtle returned, propelling itself into the scribe’s hands, it carried the pendant within its mouth. Malachite wept with joy as the scribe threaded it onto a new chain and adorned it around her neck once more.

“It goes against my nature to see you heartbroken, dear Malachite.”

“You have a generous heart, my friend,” she replied. “And you will forever hold a special place in mine.”

The festivities resumed. Jae and Malachite passed their time dancing and then talking with each other, reluctant to be parted again. They likewise spent the equinox together, and also much of the remainder of the season.

They were wed before the season’s end.

The dancer gifted her new husband with an amulet to wear, in the shape of a turtle; the scribe painted a line of green kohl down the chin of his new wife.

In the years that followed, their lives were joyous and their love unwavering. And when a child was born unto them, Malachite in turn gifted her pendant onto her daughter.

><><

The first thing Charles does upon finishing the story, is to ask Erik if he also liked this one better. At Erik’s agreement, Charles lifts his gaze to Shaw. “And what did you think?”

“It was an interesting counterpoint. Though I would revisit your earlier observation about emphasis.”

They stare daggers at each other. Warren slides his finger along the flat edge of his scythe. It’s inevitable these two are going to come to blows, in their fight over Erik. Probably very soon.

Raven interrupts the tension with an unexpected question. “Can I name the turtle?”

It means something to Charles at least, who regards his sister with fond exasperation. “I think Erik should name this one.”

Erik taps his index fingers together, thinking. He slants a questioning glance at Charles, prompting his signatory to fight back a grin. Then Erik announces, “Sheta.”

Warren thinks this is a good enough name as any – not that he’s ever thought about naming a turtle before – but Raven splutters. “What? Erik, no! You can’t name it that!”

“Too late, I have.”

“No!”

Betsy asks the question. “What’s wrong with Sheta?”

Charles answers. “It means ‘turtle.’”

Warren laughs. Raven’s laughing too, though still trying to protest. “You can’t name the turtle, ‘Turtle.’”

Erik’s looking extremely pleased with himself. “Why not? Malachite was named after the jewel in her pendant.” Then he makes a point to inform Charles how much he enjoyed the symbolism of the turtle amulet towards the end of the tale.

Warren adjusts the gold ring he wears on the middle finger of his right hand. “Shiny trinkets are always good tokens of affection,” he comments, which earns a knowing smile from Betsy. Engraved with a wing glyph, she’d given him the ring as payment upon the conclusion of their very first contract together.

“Indeed.” Charles strokes his thumb over Erik’s brooch. “Why don’t you tell us about one of your _actual_ favourites?”

Erik considers. “Well. There’s one – it’s not much of a story, though. Just a short poem.” He interlaces his fingers, resting them on his chest, and begins to recite it.

><><

Conceive of a land turned upside-down

And what change it may bring to our self.

A mother with naught but a basket,

Now with furniture; a house itself.

A slave seeking her face in water;

Hither, in a mirror finds herself.

Nobleman of greed and dishonour;

Fallen, becomes a peasant himself.

Take heart child, keep faith, strike down your fears;

But hark – take care not to lose yourself.

Body; spirit; heart; will; name; shadow;

Mind; persona; gift – these be thy self.

Kneel not for false gods nor unjust lords,

Instead be a law unto oneself.

By Horus, I swear soon you shall say:

‘The best life is one true to myself.’

><><

Turns out, when properly motivated, Erik has quite the flair for theatrics too. Warren’s never been one for poetry, but even he’s impressed.

Charles is gazing at Erik like he’s worth more than all their adamantium relics put together… or like he wants to devour him.

“Are they always like this?” Betsy quietly asks Raven, who supplies immediate confirmation.

Erik’s clearly pleased by the overall reception of the poem. “I think it appeals to my ever-readiness for chaos.” Charles laughs, soft and fond, and resumes running his fingers through Erik’s hair.

“I’ll drink to that.” Warren raises his beer, offering a loose salute in Erik’s direction. “Here’s to striking down unjust lords and reaching new heights.” Erik grins at him, and Warren drinks. Gods, it’s barely been days, and he misses flying.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He finds Shaw watching him, with a blank expression that unsettles him more than the man’s usual smile.

<><><><><>

Kelly stirs in his sleep but doesn’t wake, clutching the scales closer to his chest. His grasp on the book is not as secure, which makes it easier for Charles to slide it free.

He’d been right – it has the same sort of indent on its cover as the sarcophagus. The only difference being this one has a glyph at its centre. It’s neither engraved, nor embossed. Instead, this glyph – an ankh – is a seamless part of the metal, with only the colour contrast giving it presence at all.

Given the multi-coloured relics the Lakers had found, Charles wouldn’t be surprised if the lock was also adamantium, rather than any of the typically common bronze-coloured metals. There’s never been evidence to suggest adamantium exists in non-silver variations, but he trusts the accuracy of Erik’s assessment.

Returning to their campsite, Charles sets the book down atop a small crate.

“I thought your sister was the thief,” Erik comments from where he’s propped against his bag, eyes still closed.

“I’m only borrowing it,” Charles refutes idly, fetching the coin from Raven’s pocket without disturbing her sleep.

Erik snorts, sitting up. “Utterly convincing.” Charles tells him to hush, sitting in front of the crate. Erik sidles over to sit beside him. “Not to state the obvious, but this book is black obsidian, not gold.”

“This isn’t the Book of Amun-Ra.” Charles sets the coin into the indent, and it fits as perfectly as it had into the sarcophagus. “I think it’s the Book of the Dead.”

<><><><><>

“The Book of the Dead,” Erik repeats. He eyes it more cautiously than he’d been doing a moment ago.

Unperturbed, Charles nods. He turns the coin. The clamps unlock. “It also holds a collection of ancient rites and affirmations.” He opens the book. “The Book of Amun-Ra relates more to mutation; this book is about astral realms.” This makes more sense as to why Charles is keen on it.

Something oppressive seems to hang in the air – Erik feels small all of a sudden. Not diminished, but... self-contained. He’d felt this way earlier, after they’d opened the sarcophagus, and he’s not sure why. Shaw often makes him question his _sense_ of reality, but this feels more like something’s wrong _with_ reality itself.

The feeling isn’t helped by the empty stare of the statue of Anubis not too far away. Erik tries to ignore it by focusing on Charles, watching him turn a few pages. “What’s it say?”

Charles slides his fingers across the glyphs. “It speaks of the soul, and the vital essence.” He begins reading aloud, speaking the ancient language. Though Erik doesn’t understand the words, he perceives their meaning – he assumes Charles is projecting.

><><

By oath thy soul is bound;

Thy name has endured, as has thy character —

By affirmed word;

Thy spirit is released —

Thus resurrected;

Thy vital essence; returned to thy flesh —

Thus life restored —

Thy heart beats.

><><

There’s an odd stillness when Charles stops speaking, like the city – or something _within_ the city – is holding its breath.

Erik hears himself speak. “Thy heart beats… thou art alive.”

<><><><><>

He is En Sabah Nur, god over all of the gifted. His _ka_ is as strong as it has ever been. And by his will, the fragmented pieces of his being come back together.

His mind re-emerges from the void; his shadow descends through the city; both seeking out his body, reattaching themselves. As his spirit rises from the Underworld, it also settles within his decayed corpse.

The current condition of his physical body and his powers does not concern him – both will regenerate upon the revelations, as the sacred oath demands. And as the rites take hold, his heart reforms within his chest. It begins to beat again.

He may not yet be whole, but he’s _alive_ once more.

And with everything he needs so close within his reach.

His fingers twitch.

<><><><><>

A piercing roar splits the air.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egyptian deities:  
> ED: Horus is a sky god, associated with kingship, the sun, and the moon. (But more on him later.)
> 
> Egyptian Hieroglyphs [as per Gardiner’s Sign List]:  
> EH: [H5] ‘Wing’  
> EH: [S34] ‘Ankh’ – also referred to as the ‘key of life,’ the ankh was a symbol of life itself. (But more on this later also.)
> 
> The nine components to the soul: ‘Khet’ – physical body <> ‘Sah’ – spiritual body (or astral projection) <> ‘Ib’ – physical heart <> ‘Ka’ – vital essence (the metaphoric heart, or will) <> ‘Ba’ – personality <> ‘Shut’ – shadow <> ‘Sekhem’ – form <> ‘Ren’ – name <> ‘Akh’ – intellect  
> S: Death occurs with the loss of the ka.  
> S: Historically, little is known about the ‘form’ – it has been defined as a ‘force’ or ‘power’ and so I decided to attribute it to the X-gene and mutations.  
> S: Intellect refers to cognitive thought, not intelligence.
> 
> ‘There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked’ – Isaiah 48:22
> 
> Regarding the relics:  
> R: The red sword is of the ‘Gladius’ style, commonly seen amongst Ancient Romans.  
> R: The wreath circlet was known as the ‘crown of justification’ in Ancient Egypt, and symbolised victory over death in the afterlife.  
> R: The sickle is sometimes used as the emblem of the Grim Reaper rather than the traditional scythe.
> 
> The two campfire stories were inspired by the ‘Westcar Papyrus,’ an Ancient Egyptian text featuring five tales about magic. Shaw’s story is based on the second tale – in the original, the adulterous wife is also sentenced to death; Charles’s story is based on the third.  
> W: Both carnelian and malachite were important stones in Ancient Egypt. Carnelians ranged from orange to blood-red shades. They were symbols of power and also worn to enhance desire. Malachite is a rich green colour, and is regarded as a stone of transformation, assisting with change and growth. It warned against danger and enhanced foresight.  
> W: Semitic women often applied kohl as Malachite did; originally the painted chin indicated whether the woman was married.
> 
> ‘Shetyw’ (or ‘sheta’) means ‘turtle’ in Ancient Egyptian. The earliest representations of turtles were associated with magic, to ward off evil – though they later became associated with the Underworld.
> 
> Erik’s ghazal poem was inspired by an Ancient Egyptian papyrus, the ‘Admonitions of Ipuwer.’ The original text is much longer, full of dramatics and chaos. It’s also been considered as the inspiration for several books within the Bible, most notably the Book of Exodus.  
> P: Ghazal has existed as an Arabic poetry form since the seventh century. It features themes of unconditional love against separation and/or loss.  
> P: Ghazal is comprised of five to fifteen couplets (two lines of verse which rhyme), all with the same rhythm meter (syllable count). In this case, I used nine syllables to reflect the aspects of the soul.  
> P: Monorhyme is common in Arabic poetry – in ghazal, each couplet ends with the same word; in this case ‘self.’
> 
> Derealisation is a dissociative state where the world feels unreal. Depersonalisation is a detachment within one’s self; feeling unreal within the world. Both can be symptoms of anxiety, depression, as well as other mental disorders stemming from trauma. (And both of which I bring up for completely innocent and non-ominous reasons...)
> 
> -


	9. Swarms and Sia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind your feet, guard your thoughts, and wield your words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve all been having such a good time, enjoying Erik VS the sand, the rivalry we never knew we needed.

<><><><><>

Shaw lifts his head at the sound.

Someone has read from the book.

<><><><><>

The roar echoes even after the noise itself ends, leaving an ambience in its wake which makes Charles uneasy. It bleeds across the astral plane, like an ink spill – the top sheet of paper stained dark, the shade seeping through to the sheets beneath. The power behind it is nothing like he’s ever felt before.

Raven jerks awake in a panic. The Lakers emerge, clutching their relics. Beside him, Erik shudders, his mind blank with dread.

Then there’s a different sort of roar – this one borne of wind and sand.

<><><><><>

The distant rumble grows louder with each passing moment. Erik turns, looking out towards the valley; the others all follow his gaze. A rolling wave of sand is building on the horizon, gathering height as it tumbles towards the city.

“The _sand_ –” it’s moving far too swiftly to be natural, and against the wind. Erik grabs at Charles’s arm, pulls him to his feet. “Run!” He shouts to the others, as the wave breaks and sand floods into the city. _“Run!”_

<><><><><>

Shotgun strapped firmly in place against his back, William starts running. This decision is _not_ connected in any way to Lehnsherr’s order, and he is _not_ afraid.

He keeps a firm grip on his sword.

<><><><><>

“Charles!” Raven grabs the coin, more out of habit than anything else, and scrambles to her feet. “Erik!”

Charles calls for her, aloud; Erik catches her arm as she stumbles. The three of them race towards a nearby entrance into the tunnels.

<><><><><>

_“Extemporise,”_ Betsy hollers over her shoulder. Warren nods, spreading his wings a little and falling back. She and Stryker lead the way into the inner city to escape the sandstorm, their workers following, with Warren and Shaw bringing up the rear. “Where’s Kelly?”

“Who cares?” Stryker retorts. “Just, _run!”_ His inflection is identical to Erik’s earlier insistence – how unsurprising. The man really can’t tolerate the contractor doing anything without feeling threatened by him.

Betsy darts ahead of him, fronting the group as they continue onwards, trusting Warren to watch her back, as he always does.

<><><><><>

The latches on the book catch shut again as he hastily gathers it up, but Robert will worry about this later. With no time left to reach the tunnels, he takes shelter between two large chunks of fallen pillar. He pulls his scarf up over his nose and mouth to keep from breathing in the dust, then tucks the book and his scales against his chest.

The rush of sand which comes barrelling past doesn’t behave like any sandstorm he’s seen before. There are no excess particles; instead, the sand stays in tight formation. It snakes like a cobra, moving with direction and purpose, and when it reaches the statue of Anubis it bursts apart, spraying in all directions.

The sand settles where it falls, and everything grows still again.

Robert clutches his relics even closer. It’s obvious the sandstorm had been called upon by some… force.

_Mutants._ Such power they can wield, and without even having to earn the privilege. The unfairness of it all eats away at him sometimes. Such a thin line between the unique and the mundane, all because of a small imbalance of genetics.

His shadow is a thin line at present, oddly distended on the ground in front of him. He stares at it, trying to figure out what’s wrong with the angles.

Other shadows suddenly fall across his. Panic sticks his cry in his throat as he jerks his head up to find himself surrounded.

<><><><><>

The end of the corridor opens into a dim chamber serving as a thoroughfare, with several other corridors branching off in different directions. Warren catches sight of one of their workers disappearing down the tunnel to the far right, and he turns to follow.

Shaw collides with him, hard enough to knock him off his feet.

Warren shouts, wings spreading awkwardly as he’s sent sprawling to the ground. His left hand takes the brunt of his fall – his palm stings and his wrist throbs. He loses hold of his scythe; it lands just out of reach. The adamantium is far more resilient than he is.

He winces, clumsily getting his hands and knees under him, picking his wings off the ground and shaking his feathers a little. “Ugh. North Wind, curse him.” For someone so prone to _watching,_ Shaw should be better at looking where he’s going.

A hand lands on the shoulder joint of his right wing. “How impolite.” The hand shifts, and then –

The hot white _snap_ of pain tears a scream from his throat. His _wing!_ Warren recoils, thrashing, but doesn’t get anywhere with the vice grip still holding firm.

Cold metal closes around his wrist.

Then he’s dragged sideways and upwards – the strain this puts on his wing, the muscles in his chest, is agony – and he slams face first into a wall.

His legs buckle but his fall is prevented by the shackle on his wrist, the chain attached to it pulling taut. Before he can get his feet under him, a firm tug of the chain pulls him higher, until his toes barely brush against the ground.

Bracing a knee against the wall, he tries twisting around to look over his shoulder. He chokes on a groan as the movement jars his broken wing, hanging limply, in an unnatural position. Shaw’s securing the other end of the chain in a bracket clearly designed for this purpose.

“Shaw! What are you – let me down! This is –”

_“Unjust?”_ Shaw steps back to inspect his work, then looks at Warren. “Well, you know what they say. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Shaw!” But the man turns away, departs down another corridor. _“Shaw!”_

Warren wraps his fingers around the chain, attempting to ease the ache in his wrist. He plants one foot against the wall, and tries to hoist himself up, his free hand probing the shackle for a release mechanism. His foot slips – he yelps as the metal presses up against the heel of his palm, then gasps at the sharp flare of pain in his right side; shoulder; chest; wing bone.

“He’s dead,” Warren growls out through gritted teeth. _“Dead.”_

_‘Death…’_

Warren jerks. Holds his breath as he listens intently, but there’s nothing to hear. It’s as silent as the grave. Whatever he _thought_ he’d heard, he must have imagined it.

Something moves nearby.

“Shaw?” There’s no response. Warren’s heart begins to race. He raises his voice. “Betsy?”

_‘A servant – corrupted, by reason of the swarm…’_

He did _not_ imagine _that._ There’s a voice – in his head? A telepath? It doesn’t sound like Charles. Warren tries to look around to the left, but his good wing obscures most of his vision.

More movement – but on his other side, closer.

There’s someone standing behind him.

Warren looks over his right shoulder, over the top of his broken wing, and sees –

He screams.

<><><><><>

They stick close to each other as they traverse through the tunnels. Raven’s fairly confident they’re out of range of the sandstorm now, but her nerves are still frayed. The feeling gets worse when the silence around them is broken.

There’s a scuttling sound, growing louder. Then the floor shudders, as though something beneath the ground has shifted or cracked open. The three of them stagger to a halt, reaching for each other uncertainly.

In the middle of the corridor, a mound of sand begins to rise, like a slowly inflating balloon. Raven grabs at Charles’s arm as they warily back up, Erik hovering protectively in front of them.

The sand mound bursts open, beetles streaming out.

“Scarabs!”

The bugs surge forward, flooding down the corridor towards them. They flee back the way they came; Raven turns down a different tunnel, heading deeper into the city, Charles and Erik close behind her.

The archway at the end of the tunnel opens into a cavernous space, with a single path winding up along a narrow bridge. The path runs close to the right-hand side of the cavern, though still some distance from the sand-covered ledge protruding out of the rock-face. But to the left side of the path is a large chasm, a drop of hundreds of feet, interspersed with isolated pillars of rock, some wide enough to act as a platform.

The pursuant skittering keeps growing louder, closer – it becomes obvious they’re not going to outrun the swarm.

“Go, jump!” Erik urges.

She and Charles leap to one side, onto one of the nearby platforms; Erik leaps to the other, landing on the ledge near the wall.

The scarabs continue onward without slowing, heading up the bridge and into the corridor on the upper level. Raven watches them, heart still racing. She catches Erik’s gaze; he’s got one arm braced against the rock-face behind him, looking as unnerved as she feels.

Screams, sandstorms, scarabs. What is happening?

The silence after the bugs have gone feels fragile. Raven holds her breath a little longer, then exhales shakily.

Suddenly, the entire cavern shakes. There’s a wave of energy – astral energy – she’s familiar enough with telepathy to know it stems from some form of catharsis. She staggers back a little at the force of it.

Her heel hits the edge of the pillar, which crumbles beneath her weight. She slips.

<><><><><>

He and Charles both shout Raven’s name – Charles lunges for her, catching her arms just in time, and somehow manages to prevent them both sliding off the platform. Erik would _very much appreciate it_ if none of them died in this accursed city.

He’d felt the energy wave – seen his friends react to it – but as it had neared him, his magnetism had rippled outwards like an invisible bubble. The wave had glanced off, surging around it instead of passing through. Erik’s not entirely sure how he’d managed this – he’ll ask Charles for his opinion later, when they’re all out of immediate peril.

Charles is lying flat on his stomach, supporting Raven’s weight as she tries to climb back onto the platform. Erik takes several steps backwards, preparing to make the jump back onto the path, so he can help them.

His right foot sinks to his ankle. When he tries to lift it back up, it doesn’t budge. The sand constricts with the force of a snake, grasping tightly like an unwanted hand.

And then the ground gives way around him.

He’s swallowed up by the sinkhole before he can make a sound, dragged down into the sand.

<><><><><>

It’s difficult to keep Raven’s panic from overwhelming him, when he’s feeling exactly the same way.

_‘Charles!’_

_‘I’ve got you, you’re okay!’_

_‘Don’t drop me!’_

_‘I won’t.’_

_‘Gods, Charles, please –’_

Raven’s foot slips off the rock and Charles’s arms are almost wrenched out of their sockets. Her scream amplifies the migraine the strange astral wave has given him.

_‘Raven!’_

_‘I can’t –’_

_‘You can – your foot, there –’_

_‘Almost, okay, yes.’_

Once she gets purchase, he shuffles back in increments, slowly pulling her up. His head still throbs – he’s encountered other mutants with psionic abilities before, but none with the raw power that wave had suggested.

Back atop the platform, Raven gives a breathless cry and slumps face down against the rock. She projects relief, he responds with reassurance. Getting to his feet, he rakes his hair back, then presses at his migraine until it goes away. It takes more effort than he expects.

“Erik’s right,” Raven mumbles. _“Cursed.”_

It’s then Charles realises he’s not sensing anything from Erik, and turns around to look at him.

But Erik isn’t there. The ledge is empty, sand and rock-face undisturbed, as if Erik had never been there at all.

<><><><><>

He thrashes madly – there’s sand everywhere, the sand’s cursed – it’s dragging him down, down – he’s drowning in it, he can’t breathe –

Sand gives way to air – Erik falls, lands in a crumpled heap on the ground at the end of a darkened corridor. He rubs at his shoulder, keeps his eyes on the ceiling as he gets to his feet. The rippling surface rolls back in on itself – sand solidifying into rock – until the ceiling is still and solid again.

At least the sand didn’t have the appetite of those scarab beetles. Starved for centuries, the scarabs are ravenous. They won’t stop until they’ve feasted.

Erik shivers. He hopes he can find his way back to the others. _Quickly._

There’s a low groan nearby.

He spins around, peering through the gloom as he reaches out with his metal sense. There’s shattered links of chain littered everywhere, broken apart as if in the wake of an explosion. There’s also a familiar scythe; he can just about make out the pale weapon lying on the ground.

“Warren?” Erik cautiously moves further into the cavern. “That you?”

This is met with another pained groan.

A few more steps bring the huddled figure into view. Erik goes still. Warren’s shuddering uncontrollably. One of his wings is broken – and both of them have been completely stripped to the bone. All of his feathers are gone.

“Warren,” he repeats, stricken. Hand outstretched, he starts forward again. Then there’s movement in the shadows; Erik turns sharply, instinctively, as another figure emerges.

He recoils, a shout of primal terror wrenched from him.

The corpse, the very same one from the adamantium sarcophagus, is _standing_ there; _moving;_ _sentient._ It’s _alive_ – there’s a heart, thumping within the ribcage. And it has _eyes_ now – blank, white.

Exactly the same glossy shade of white as Warren’s feathers had been.

Those eyes are fixed on him.

The mummy steps slowly towards him. Erik backs up, just as slowly; despite every instinct screaming at him to flee, he finds he _can’t._ Everything feels… distant, unreal. Instinctively, he reaches for metal – finds the brooch on his jacket, anchors his senses to it.

His back hits a wall. He freezes.

The mummy pauses, tilts its head to the side as it regards him. Pleased. Intrigued. Hungry – but not like the scarabs were.

He’d much rather the scarabs.

He wants to run, he wants to – [kneel, kneel before his god] – no – ‘kneel not for false gods’ – it’s a living corpse – [a divine king] – he can’t think clearly – and some of these thoughts _aren’t his._

It’s like drowning – except it’s like _sinking,_ and the distinction terrifies him. He clings fiercely to his only anchor.

<><><><><>

“There’s got to be some sort of secret passageway here.” Raven knocks the hilt of her knife against the rock-face, her measured tone entirely at odds with her underlying worry. “You’ll see. There’ll be a door, and we’ll find him, and he’ll be glowering in that cute way you like, when he’s fed up with everything that _isn’t_ you.”

Charles does not smile. While he appreciates her efforts, he’s not reassured. He can’t hear Erik. _He can’t hear Erik._ And he can’t tell if this is because of the city, their physical distance from each other, or Erik’s state of consciousness.

Quietly, he says, “scarabs.”

Raven stills. Just as quietly, acknowledges, “yeah.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “A whole _swarm_ of _living_ scarabs.”

“And there came a grievous swarm out from the city,” Shaw proclaims as he walks down the path towards them, “and the swarm feasted in the land of Egypt.” He jumps onto the ledge. Then he grins. “Lose something?”

Charles seizes Shaw by his shirtfront and slams him back against the rock-face. “Where is he?” Shaw says nothing, merely continues to grin. _“Where’s Erik?”_

“Erik’s missing?” Betsy asks as she, Stryker, and their remaining workers appear in the upper archway. The workers stay huddled together near Stryker, who sheathes his sword in favour of taking up his shotgun, as he watches the tunnel they’d come from.

“What have you done with him?” Charles demands.

“I haven’t touched him. Recently. I should do something about that, now you mention it.”

Rage is a warrior goddess heralded as the Mistress of Dread. It’s the scorching hot desert wind, a blood-lust which if left unchecked could destroy all of humanity. It’s seeing nothing but red, red, red, red, _red, red._

Raven winces, shifting uncomfortably. “Uh, Charles? Need Sekhmet?”

Charles shoots a glare at her, but reinforces his mental barriers to better contain his anger. “Not yet.”

Betsy comes to a halt at the edge of the path near them, eyeing Shaw suspiciously. “And where’s Warren?” She clenches her fists by her sides. “You were with him last.”

Shaw turns his grin on her. “Oh, I’m sure he’s hanging around somewhere nearby.” Betsy’s eyes narrow further, her hands catching alight with frazzled sparks.

_“Where. Is. Erik?”_

Shaw laughs.

Charles releases him – so he can slug him in the jaw. The blow lands with enough force to knock Shaw back against the rock-face. Charles hopes it _hurt._

Shaw slowly articulates his jaw, regarding Charles coolly, obviously making some form of reassessment. The man’s hard to read – he’s very good at controlling his surface thoughts. If he’s done something to Erik, Charles is going to tear his mind apart.

One of the workers scream; Stryker fires his shotgun into the tunnel. All of them begin retreating from the archway. “Run,” Stryker shouts, firing again as the returning sound of skittering grows louder.

“Come on, come on,” Betsy urges, reaching for Raven as she leaps back onto the path. The two women race down towards the lower tunnel, Charles close on their heels.

<><><><><>

_“Abide,”_ William commands, followed with, “halt!”

The workers, bound by the command word, stop running halfway down the path. They start wailing and begging instead.

William and Shaw both pause in the archway to watch. The swarm of scarabs descend on the workers, devouring them and their screams in a matter of seconds, leaving only cleanly stripped skeletons and piles of ragged clothes behind. Shaw chuckles lowly, then they’re both running again.

William pulls ahead – rounding the bend brings the other three back into view. He increases his pace, determined to catch up.

<><><><><>

He holds out his hand. “I have waited many ages for you, my Consort.”

His Consort’s gaze falls to his hand. He’s trembling.

<><><><><>

A hint, a curling thread of an impression, and Charles abruptly veers to the right, towards the familiar sense. _‘Erik?’_ He reaches for Erik’s mind – but – it’s like reaching into a fog. _‘Erik!’_

Erik doesn’t respond. If he can hear Charles at all. His thoughts are buried too deeply, are too distant to make out. It’s like trying to read words off a sheet of parchment when the whole page is dark with ink.

But what Charles _can_ sense from Erik is _fear._

As he runs down the darkened corridor, Charles gathers his focus. He turns a corner and – there! Charles shouts, with every ounce of authority he can muster.

_‘Sia!’_

The command word cuts through the fog, immediately compelling Erik’s attention. _‘Charles!’_ Fear billows out into full-blown terror.

“Erik!” Charles races through an archway, sees Erik with his back against the wall. Erik doesn’t shift his gaze from ahead of him, but turns his body towards Charles, reaching. Charles reaches too, sliding his hands up Erik’s arms when he collides with him. Erik’s hand tightens around his elbow. “Are you all right?” Charles follows his gaze – and shouts.

The mummy snarls at him.

Raven skids to a halt when she sees it, horrified. As the other two also stop in their tracks, the mummy glances their way — the sparks clinging to Betsy’s hands fizzle out, and Stryker clutches his shotgun closer to his chest.

There’s a sense of self-entitlement emanating from the mummy as it turns its attention back to Erik. It speaks, in Ancient Egyptian. _‘You shall serve me well.’_

Rage tastes blood-red and stains everything else around it.

Charles raises a hand, sets his fingers to his temple. He hurls a wave of astral energy forwards — if this corpse has a mind, then he can repel it.

But the mummy withstands the wave when it hits. Rather than being thrown, it’s merely dragged back a few inches, heels digging in the sand. It’s a mutant, with psionic abilities — _strong_ ones.

When it comes to a halt again, the mummy roars furiously at them.

Stryker swings his shotgun into position and fires, shooting the mummy square in the chest. It recoils a little, snarling, but doesn’t falter much beyond that. The moment gives everyone the chance to come to their senses though — the five of them pushing and pulling at each other as they all flee down the corridor together.

The noise echoing off the walls of the cavern they leave behind sounds uncannily like laughter.

Erik readjusts his hold on Charles, seizing his hand instead, with a desperation still laced with fear. _‘Don’t let go,’_ he chants, over and over. _‘Don’t let go.’_

Charles holds on tight. _‘I won’t,’_ he promises. _‘I won’t.’_

<><><><><>

None of them stop running until they reach the end of the tunnels, re-emerging back outside. And the only reason they all come to a halt is because Logan and an assortment of cloaked-ones are waiting for them, weapons at the ready.

Raven’s not sure she’s capable of processing anything that’s happened right now — she concentrates on people-watching instead.

Erik’s clinging to Charles like her brother’s the only thing left in the world that makes sense to him. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Say it again.” His breaths are coming too fast, he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

“Sia,” Charles responds with quiet insistence. He sets his hand to Erik’s face. “Calm your mind.” Then he says nothing else – aloud, at least. Erik’s breaths are still shaky, but they begin to slow.

Wade’s standing by the edge of the group, twirling his knife and frowning. Cowering at his feet is Kelly, book clutched to his chest. Beside them, Irene. Her hood is lowered, and her sword sheathed. Her face is tilted upwards, towards the night sky, and she’s doing well not to show how worried she is – but Raven can tell.

Jaw clenched, Logan speaks through gritted teeth. “Congratulations. You’ve unleashed the Apocalypse. An ancient evil, bound for over three thousand years.”

Stryker sneers, brandishing his weapon for emphasis. “I _shot_ the abomination.” Despite his insistence, she knows it’s not adrenaline causing the slight tremor in his hands. “It’s done.”

“A mortal weapon ain’t going to kill this thing, bub.” The grimness of Logan’s expression gives her chills. “And this nightmare’s just getting started.”

Hollering-banshee and havoc-blaster come forward, carrying Warren between them. Raven sucks in a sharp breath at the devastating sight of his wings.

“Warren!” Betsy darts forwards, drops to her knees beside him as the pair ease him to the ground. Warren’s barely conscious. He doesn’t respond to her, cradling his scythe and muttering about death. Betsy’s hands tremble as she checks him over, her face sickly pale. “Angel?”

Wade sighs, tucking his knife away. “It’s a shame. I’d rather have met the guy over beers, placing wagers on fights.”

Kelly’s staring at the skeletal wings. “What did you _do_ to him?” Something about his tone bothers Raven. A clinical edge bubbling beneath his terror.

“We saved him,” Logan says shortly. “Before the Apocalypse could corrupt all that he is. Now get yourselves as far away from this place as you can, before he destroys you all.”

Erik shudders violently. “Or worse, makes thralls of us.” Charles tugs him even closer.

Logan glances briefly at Erik, then orders his team to stand down and directs them to return to their camp. When only he, Wade, and Irene remain, he tells his companions, “we need to plan our next move carefully.”

“Smart,” Wade says with a nod, as he turns lazily on his heel. “Here’s a plan: we need to find a weapon that _can_ kill him. It’ll be a two-step process. Step one: find a weapon. Step two: kill him.”

“I _shot_ the creature!” Stryker protests again. Everyone ignores him.

Wade starts to skip away, Logan and Irene turning to follow. “Wait,” Raven calls, and they pause. She takes a step forward. “Irene…” The mummy had held itself with such confidence, as if being a walking corpse was something it had anticipated. “What _is_ he?”

Logan answers before Irene can. “He is the Apocalypse, the harbinger of ruin. He is relentless. He won’t stop until he’s remade this world anew.”

“He’s a mutant,” Wade adds helpfully. “He’s the First One.”

Oh, gods. Raven wraps her hands around her elbows. Charles, Erik, and the Lakers look equally horrified.

Logan regards her with narrowed eyes, then storms away. Wade follows the man, but Irene hesitates. “Stay safe, Raven,” the woman implores, before she too departs.

<><><><><>

Tensions between Logan and Irene come to a head back at camp. Irene’s clutching her recently recovered sword close, her knuckles white around the hilt. Logan’s glaring at her, fists by his side, claws extended. Their argument breaks out in the way all fights between a leader and an advisor should — out of earshot of the rest of the team.

Wade watches the confrontation from his boulder, popping another handful of raisins into his mouth. Dried grapes aren’t bad, but he’d rather pie. Pie, the food. Not pi, the mathematical value of three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three-five-et cetera-et cetera. Not pi, the sixteenth letter of the Greek alphabet. Hard to eat, letters. Numbers, sure – seven eight nine.

“You must have Seen this,” Logan snarls. “How could you _not_ have Seen this?”

Irene gestures widely, out towards the generic direction of Hamunaptra. “You _know_ why. Even undead, Apocalypse hindered our powers. We knew if he was ever to rise, it would be hidden from me.”

Pi was also an ancient vassal state in the Zhon Dynasty – but China doesn’t factor into this. Peru maybe. There _are_ mummies in Peru. Or there are _no_ mummies in Peru. One of those two statements is accurate. But pie, pastry and filling, very delicious. Ramses would agree with him. There’s an ancient recipe for chicken pie recorded on a tablet from Mesopotamia. Or, rather, chicken galette? Early pies were called galettes.

I baked you a pie; oh boy, what flavour; pie flavour! Crusts of ground oats, wheat, rye, or barley. Containing honey. Sweet, sweet honey. _Bees!_ Honey is a religious experience – it’s said the Promised Land flows with milk and honey.

“You jeopardised our mission in order to meet Raven!”

Pelicans are evil. They can’t be trusted. They would sooner eat a small person than a fish.

Irene denies Logan’s accusation. “My clarity about Raven has nothing to do with this. Yesterday wasn’t pivotal; tonight was.”

Irene’s spoken about Raven before – rarely, but reverently. Irene loves her, treasures the brief handful of impressions she’s collected involving the woman. She wants to live those moments, share in them. Even though she already knows the destinations, she wants to fall in love throughout the journey too.

She’s a romantic at heart. Just like him!

Wade can’t remember if he’d figured out the coin-carrier and Raven were one and the same when he’d literally ran into her on the ship – he’d been preoccupied with his skin getting the ugly-avocado treatment – but he’d definitely worked it out by the time he’d, also somewhat literally, left the river of denial far behind.

He’d forgotten to mention it to either of his fellow X-Force fighters. Whoops.

“If we’d killed them all yesterday, Apocalypse wouldn’t walk the earth now!”

“The wrong death would have killed us all!”

“Gift her a saqqara bird!”

Logan and Irene startle, both clearly having forgotten he was there. “What?” They ask in unison, a symphony of confusion.

“Raven! Saqqara bird!”

Logan retracts his claws, sighing not-so-patiently. “And what’s that?”

“No one knows.” Its purpose has been lost to time. Maybe it was ceremonial. Or a weathervane. Or a child’s plaything. Ooh, or maybe the Ancient Egyptians had flying machines! Leonardo da Vinci did. “A carved bird made from sycamore wood,” he tells Irene. “For her birthday, maybe, if we all live that long.”

Wade eats some more raisins. They’re fig trees, sycamore trees. The Ancient Egyptian’s Tree of Life. They have heart-shaped leaves! Definitely romantic.

Irene smiles sadly. “I hope so.” Then she sighs too, though hers is an expression of regret. She sets her sword aside. “I’m sorry,” she offers. “I didn’t consider the extent these convergences would have on my visions.”

“Yeah, I know,” Logan grunts, relenting. “You’d never risk the future. It’s too important.”

Translation: he’s well aware Irene dreads having to sacrifice any potential future versions of herself; she cherishes those moments so. Logan can deny it all he wants, but he’s a romantic too. No one who’s prepared to try and safeguard the world against ancient evil is anything other than a romantic!

Wade sing-songs at him. “Say _sorry!”_

Logan side-eyes him, but the apology is sincere. “I’m sorry too.”

“I know,” Irene says, with a wry smile.

Wade rolls his eyes. “Stubborn as an oxen. Both of you.” He starts humming to himself.

_‘Upon your cattle, on your sheep, upon your oxen in your field; into your dreams, into your sleep, until you break, until you yield; I send the swarm, I send the horde; thus saith the Lord.’_

Some of that’s relevant now. Some of that’s probably going to be relevant later.

“Given the circumstances, Erik’s the least likely of everyone involved to be murdered.”

Logan exhales heavily. “The metal bender –”

“Master of magnetism!”

“– you still can’t see him?”

It’s very rude of Logan to ignore him, but Wade’s curious enough about the answer he doesn’t interject again as Irene shakes her head. “He’s… a force of chaos, and change.”

“You can see ripples, but he can cause them,” Wade contributes.

Logan ponders this, then dismisses it. “Well, in any case, Apocalypse is risen. Our priority now is finding a way to stop him.”

Wade tunes out the rest of their discussion about logistics – he’ll wait for their decisions, then do his best to help them see the mission through. He starts humming again.

_‘All this pain and devastation, how it tortures me inside; all the innocent who suffer…’_

He finishes off his last handful of raisins. If the evil mummy in question wasn’t a deity himself, these circumstances would be an ideal time to commence with an assortment of offerings and prayers to a multitude of gods, in the hopes to find the right words to save one’s soul.

<><><><><>

The tunnels are dim. Silent. Deserted.

He passes through an archway, moving into the chamber. He strolls by the empty chest on the ground and approaches the base of the statue. Then he waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

There’s a whisper of sand, a shifting of shadows, and a figure emerges from the gloom.

In a perfect guise of respect, Shaw bows. “Lord En Sabah Nur. The First One, divine ruler over all the kingdoms of the land. A god amongst the gifted – we are _honoured_ to have you amongst the living again.” He straightens with a smile. “I know you can understand my words, Lord. This tongue is simple, and you’ve already begun recruiting.” Not to mention, he’s a telepath.

En Sabah Nur regards him with mild interest. In English, he says, “speak your name.”

“Shaw.”

The god repeats his name. Shaw feels the emphasis he applies, the deliberate hint of power, both a demonstration and a warning. Braced for pressure, Shaw doesn’t buckle. He bears it until the psionic energy within the chamber lessens. En Sabah Nur inclines his head, acknowledging the effort.

“Why have you come?”

Careful consideration has gone into what he needs to say here.

“Because power is the one constant in life, and you set the precedent. Your vision for the world is one I would see realised. And your resurrection shall herald such _glory.”_ Shaw folds his hands together in front of him. “An arrangement between us would be mutually beneficial.”

“You _are_ gifted.” En Sabah Nur considers him, assessing his power. Shaw’s been stockpiling energy since first approaching the city – the god’s own dampening field encouraging this passive application. And all that energy lies just beyond his fingertips, waiting to be unleashed. “Perhaps you can be of use.”

Exactly the verdict he expected. He elaborates on some key details. “You’ll require an advocate for the rites. I’d like access to the fire-vaults.” He smiles. “And we both want Erik.”

Slowly advancing towards him, En Sabah Nur exudes arrogance well. “You understand, he shall be _mine.”_

“He’s the perfect acolyte for your purposes,” Shaw allows easily, spreading his hands in a show of concession. “I know exactly how you feel. And we’re not the only ones interested in him.” Judging by En Sabah Nur’s scowl, he’s already had the pleasure of making Charles’s acquaintance. “I guarantee you, with my help, Erik _will_ surrender to us willingly.”

En Sabah Nur is indulgent in his satisfaction. And why wouldn’t he be? Shaw has already proven himself to be a valuable asset; organising the arrival of both acolyte and Horsemen, enabling the discovery of the relics, and facilitating the resurrection process. His open desire for Erik only reinforces his commitment to the cause – En Sabah Nur’s confident Shaw poses no threat to him. After all, how could he possibly stand against a god?

“I’m willing to swear an oath, as to my allegiance.” Shaw rolls up his sleeve. “Regarding all things in this life, I shall serve you first and foremost. And above all else, I shall ensure Erik ends up precisely where he belongs: kneeling at the feet of his Lord-god.”

The telepath perceives the honesty of his declaration. “Then I shall grant you my favour.”

The pain, as fleeting as it is, is intense – certainly deserving of being termed ‘soul-deep.’ But it’s easily worth the price. He shakes out his arm. Exceptionally pleased with how things are progressing, Shaw bows again.

“Now… where is my Consort?”

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egyptian deities:  
> ED: The god of the North Wind, Qebui, is often depicted as a winged, four-headed ram.  
> ED: Sekhmet was also given the title of ‘mistress of dread’ and is associated with desert winds. She was once tasked to destroy all those who conspired against the god Ra. [Raven’s reoccurring use of the goddess’s name will become clear in the next chapter…]
> 
> Scarab beetles make for a much more terrifying swarm than flies!  
> “And the LORD did so; and there came a grievous swarm of flies into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants’ houses, and into all the land of Egypt: the land was corrupted by reason of the swarm of flies.” [Exodus 8:24]
> 
> Ramses (or Ramesses II) is most commonly regarded as the Pharaoh in power during the Exodus of Egypt.
> 
> The reference to “a land flowing with milk and honey” comes from [Exodus 33:3]
> 
> The evil nature of pelicans is the author’s (entirely vindicated) opinion. In Ancient Egypt, it was believed they prophesied safe passage through the Underworld.
> 
> More lyrics from The Prince of Egypt, this time from ‘The Plagues.’ For anyone unfamiliar with the movie’s soundtrack, the wonderful Kigichi recommended the excellent covers done by Caleb Hyles & Jonathan Young.


	10. Blood is thicker than water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fort Brydon, a safe harbour – heralding a purrfect goddess, parental epiphanies, and the agonising descent into Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> The proverb ‘blood is thicker than water’ refers to the importance of familial or blood-kin relationships over others. And in literal terms, blood has a greater viscosity than water.
> 
> Warren and Erik didn’t have much fun last chapter, huh? Hope nothing traumatising happens to either of them in this one…
> 
> -

<><><><><>

Sekhmet watches the pair of them from across the room, eyes narrowed in scathing judgement.

Depositing an armful of journals into a suitcase, Erik continues arguing. “What happened to ‘curses are misunderstood phenomena?’” The small case of writing utensils nestles itself in alongside them.

Charles is busy removing the pile of shirts from another suitcase. “Well, obviously, I hadn’t accounted for remnants from the psyche of a self-mutilated soul.” The bitterness of this isn’t aimed at Erik; no one’s really broached the fact the undead mummy is a _god_ yet.

The mere reminder almost makes Erik drop the floating typewriter, but he’s close enough to physically catch it. He packs it into the suitcase. “We are _leaving.”_

“We are _not,”_ Charles retorts, unpacking his journals.

Erik refuses to be distracted about how much he wants to mouth at the stubborn set to Charles’s jaw. He huffs a sharp laugh as he makes for the bookcase. “Yes, we _are.”_

“Look. I woke him up –”

_“We_ woke him up,” because he’s not letting Charles blame himself for this mess. He makes a tactical decision to gather up as many books as he can, because the more of them he packs, the more he has to hold hostage.

Charles growls in frustration. “A three-thousand-year-old mummy was woken! And he’s a _psychic.”_

“That doesn’t make him your responsibility!”

“It means I have a unique perspective on what he’s capable of. So I’m determined to stop him!” Charles throws his hands up in exasperation. “And would you stop that!”

Despite the protest, Charles doesn’t interfere as Erik continues packing the books one at a time into yet another suitcase. If Charles really wanted to prevent Erik’s attempts to pack his bags, he’s capable of making him stop. Even without the command word.

Erik’s been trying very hard not to think about how good it felt, Charles using the command word on him. And only with the intent to _protect_ him.

He wants to spend the rest of his life with Charles.

Which requires them to live long enough to _have_ a rest of their lives.

He makes for the bookcase again. Charles rounds the bed, clearly intent on reclaiming his books. Erik grabs a hold of the metal latches and uses them to pointedly slam the suitcase shut. Charles glares at the suitcase but doesn’t bother re-opening it, instead pivoting on his heel to face Erik.

“I will _not_ allow this _Apocalypse_ to lay claim to – to the world.”

The obviously aborted _‘you’_ makes Erik swallow. “I’m all for avoiding that. But _how_ are we supposed to stop a mutant _god?_ You heard Logan – mortal weapons can’t kill him.” He’s had sufficient experience dealing with the knowledge that sometimes murder isn’t an achievable outcome, no matter how desperately he’d rather have someone meet their demise. He can’t even hold his own against _Shaw,_ let alone a _god._

Charles’s expression darkens. “Then we’ll find some _im-mortal_ weapons.”

Erik appreciates this line of reasoning but refuses to concede the point. He counters with a new argument: “Sekhmet agrees with me!”

“Sekhmet does _not_ agree with you!”

They both look across the room, towards the entity in question. Sekhmet arches her back, mewling with dissatisfaction, then proceeds to ignore them both.

All of Raven’s jokes and pointed commentary about Sekhmet had become completely understandable as soon as she’d manifested. The cat had shimmered into existence after they’d finally returned to Cairo and reached the sanctity of Fort Brydon, where she’d instantly set about warbling her displeasure. She has a far greater physical presence than any of Charles’s other psychic projections, which Raven had explained was due to both her age and the intensity of her particular function.

Charles uses Sekhmet as a conduit, a focal point for excess emotion – specifically, his anger – to avoid overwhelming other nearby minds with his projecting.

Erik’s always believed the Egyptian Mau to be a superior breed of feline. They’re intelligent animals, loyal, and sensitive to the needs of their family. They have enhanced senses – scent, hearing, sight – and thanks to their long hind legs, they’re swift runners in addition to having fast reflexes.

Sekhmet is small and fierce and opinionated. She’s _gorgeous;_ green eyes; silver fur, with dark markings – the ones on her forehead arranged in the commonly termed ‘scarab’ pattern. Erik’s as hopeless charmed by her as he is by Charles.

“She _definitely_ agrees with me.”

“Does _not.”_ Charles scowls at her. _‘She just likes you better than me, which is entirely unfair.’_

_‘What’s unfair is that I want to hold her, and she knows, and she’s being deliberately smug about denying me this.’_

They look back at each other. Charles folds his arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one advocating for a fight?”

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be encouraging discretion?”

“You mean restraint,” he accuses.

“You threw an astral wave at him, then you collapsed!”

A pause. “I didn’t ‘collapse.’ I just – felt a bit lightheaded. It’s not like I passed out!”

Semantics. Charles had held himself together until they were out of range of the City – entirely for _his_ sake, Erik knows – then when they’d stopped briefly to tend to Warren, he’d almost face-planted into the sand.

“I can take care of myself,” Charles adds, eyes narrowing.

“I _know_ that. I just…” he wants to protect Charles too. “I’ve more experience dealing with enthrallers.” By some miracle, his voice doesn’t break on the word. “Confronting one, unprepared; bad idea.”

Because Charles is very kind, he says nothing about Erik’s unsuccessful track history of dealing with one specific enthraller. “We won’t _be_ unprepared. We’ll do our research, take precautions. I won’t take risks with – this.”

It’s very difficult to maintain his side of the argument when Charles keeps saying things that makes Erik desperate to kiss him.

“We’re leaving.”

“We’re staying.”

They stare at each other again.

Charles ends the stand-off; he spins around, heading for the door. “I’m going –”

“Good.”

_“Downstairs.”_ He jerks the door open, and despite his irritation, still sends an accompanying impression of his intention to be in the bar, so Erik knows where to find him if need be. “Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

“Terrific.”

“Fantastic.” Charles sends a sharp look at Sekhmet, as she leaps down from the dresser. She darts by him and out the open door, which Charles then closes behind them both.

Erik throws himself backwards onto the bed and glares up at the ceiling. He waits until his sense of Charles dwindles away, his friend moving out of range, then touches his fingers to his brooch and sighs.

He’d have preferred to have spent his time in Charles’s bedroom engaged in something more pleasant than an argument.

<><><><><>

Charles stalks down the hall, Sekhmet trailing after him. He doesn’t see the problem with using Fort Brydon as a base – it was originally designed as a stronghold, to store precious gems and ingots. The vaults and soldier barracks still see some use, but most of the private rooms are reserved as lodgings for apprentices and researchers.

Kurt has an entire wing leased to his apprenticeship program; Charles and Raven have a whole floor to themselves, their rooms opposite each other. The extra space has certainly proved useful, given the current circumstances.

Sekhmet bounds down the stairs, waits for him at the bottom. “Don’t give me that,” he scolds as she stretches, flexing her claws against the floor. The unimpressed look she levels at him only serves to annoy him further.

Although, he wouldn’t be half as annoyed as he is, if he didn’t know Erik also believes the only resolution to this mess is the god’s death.

The lore about En Sabah Nur is scarce compared to the other gods, and all of it worrying in this new context. Much of the knowledge is succinctly represented by each element of his cartouche. Firstly, the hieroglyph of the divine ruler – the great king had been worshipped throughout all of Egypt. None disputed his reign, not the pharaohs, the priests, nor the people; he was a god over all, but especially the gifted.

The First One is named so because he’s considered to be the first earthly mutant, a bridge between the old gods and mortals. As with all gods, he possessed great strength and durability, but the bulk of his gifts lay with his insight into men’s hearts and minds – evident by the ‘celestial pool’ glyph, commonly used to represent perception; to traverse distance. When in a vertical orientation, as on his cartouche, the distance was emotional opposed to physical.

The third glyph is the ‘morning butcher.’ Officially, this symbolism marks his golden oversight, as the sun, over the labours and daily grind of his people, as the butcher’s block. Unofficially, it suggests the bloody fate which awaits any who would dare defy him.

The cartouche itself is also telling; unlike most cartouches, which are arranged along a horizontal axis, En Sabah Nur’s stands upright. Scholars often cite this as a metaphor for how he shaped the kingdoms according to his vision. But if his telepathy is as nuanced as Charles’s, this notion has more sinister implications. Especially given a plain cartouche, essentially an elongated binding glyph, also represents self-affirmation.

It’s said the god had an interest in three things above all else: clever minds; powerful gifts; and precious metals. It’s no wonder he’s intrigued by Erik, who commands all three.

Charles grits his teeth. But for all his earlier insistence, he doesn’t know where to start in stopping the undead god either.

He enters the atrium. The main venue for quiet entertainment in the fort, it features a central cooling fountain, along with several raised platforms designed as seating areas which line the room.

“He’s infuriating,” Charles complains as he joins Raven at the bar.

She snorts, upturning a glass from the small stack in front of her, and gestures for the server. “Perfectly suited for you then.” She ignores his indignant spluttering, cooing over Sekhmet as the cat jumps up onto the countertop. “Hello, Sekh, you little lioness you. Don’t you look fantastic today.” Sekhmet preens at the attention, allows Raven to pet at her. “Someone’s _very_ unhappy.”

Can she blame him? “You’re not helping,” he grumbles, then promptly regrets everything.

“If you want my opinion –”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’re getting it anyway. The reason you’re both driving each other mad? Is because you’re _both_ _right.”_ She lets that statement stand, then continues. “Erik’s right to be worried.”

“He’s terrified.” And he was quick to try supplanting his own fear by being afraid for them instead.

Raven hums in agreement. _‘You know how he feels about his autonomy.’_ She smiles as Sekhmet flops sideways to lie sprawled in front of her. _“I’m_ terrified. And I agree with him: we should stay as far away from this Apocalypse as we can.”

Charles can certainly appreciate Erik’s point. In fact, he wants nothing more than to take Erik and flee, to hide somewhere safe, where no one can ever hurt his friend again. But Erik’s far too desirable for anyone to give up their pursuit of him, and Charles would rather Erik live without the constant fear of being hunted down.

“But I agree with you too,” Raven adds. _‘And I know you’d rather be angry than scared.’_

He wraps his fingers around his glass, slowly rotates it. _‘I don’t want to lose him.’_

“You won’t.”

Charles glares at the counter. “You don’t know that.” What if he’s already lost Erik? “I don’t know why I bother, trying to reason with either of you. No one wants to listen to an overbearing telepath anyway.”

“That’s Kurt talking.” She rolls her eyes. “Did he throw your books?”

“What?”

“Your books. Did Erik toss them haphazardly into a suitcase, or did he take the time to arrange them?” Charles’s silence speaks for itself, and she exudes a sense of triumph. “There you go then.” She pauses. “Still, I’m not surprised you’re frustrated.”

_“Thank_ you,” he replies, vindicated.

Her tone turns sly. _‘Pretty sure even Kelly went a little breathless when Erik started getting passionate about his metaphor on the viscosity of non-Newtonian fluids. I know I did.’_

Unamused, Charles side-eyes his sister. “So, _Irene,_ huh?”

Raven flushes, ducks her head. “Yeah, guess so.” She skims through the memory of their meeting for his benefit. “She’s scared too. But, if she knows me in the future, that’s got to be a good sign, right?”

Charles hopes so. But Logan’s heightened dread about the situation wasn’t encouraging. And they don’t know the extent of what the Apocalypse is capable of. _‘_ _Just so you know, I will get so much mileage out of ‘place-girl’ later.’_ This earns the embarrassed exasperation he expects.

Raven upturns another two shot glasses as Betsy and Stryker approach. Betsy slides into the chair beside Raven, while Stryker rounds the bar, snatching the bottle from the server and snarling at him to get lost. The server’s quick to comply.

“Rude,” Raven admonishes tiredly. Stryker mutters irritably under his breath about low quality alcohol and all but slams the bottle back onto the shelf before examining the other options.

Sekhmet’s only reaction to the man’s temper is to stretch lazily. Charles is glad for her presence, as always – it’s easier to wallow in his own foul mood without worrying he’s at fault for anyone else’s.

“She’s a beauty,” Betsy says, eyeing Charles with new respect. “Can I pet her?”

Charles offers the woman a wry smile. “If she’ll let you.”

Betsy hovers a hand over Sekhmet, gauging both the psychic energy she’s made of and the cat’s mood. After a few moments of squinty-eyed suspicion, Sekhmet trills impatiently and butts her head against Betsy’s palm. “She’s corporeal then? I didn’t think you could do that.”

“I can’t, exactly,” Charles admits easily. “And she’s not, exactly.”

Sekhmet offers a demonstration, deliberately swiping one of her front paws out in a wide arc – though it passes through Raven’s glass instead of colliding with it, the glass rattles slightly and faint ripples tremble across the dregs of liquid inside it.

“She’s still primarily astral, rather than psionic.” The psychic terms are often interchangeable, but the former refers mainly to ethereal energy while the latter denotes more tangible applications. “So, she doesn’t interact much with the environment to physical effect – but she _can_ engage with people, to some extent.”

“Depending on psychic abilities?”

Raven clarifies, “receptiveness to psychic energy.” She smooths a hand down Sekhmet’s back, then huffs as the cat wriggles away from her and starts prowling along the length of the counter. “Still, she’s as selectively tactile as every cat is.”

A small smile creeps its way onto Betsy’s face. “That’s impressive.” She watches Sekhmet, and Charles senses her considering the implications of this manifestation in comparison to her own. Betsy uses most of her energy in order to fully manifest her psionic knives onto the physical plane, rendering them capable of causing physical damage. She wonders, if Charles’s projection retains an astral form, is it capable of inflicting astral damage?

“Sekhmet,” Charles calls sharply, as Stryker returns with a selection of bottles. She reluctantly returns to his side, pawing unhappily at his arm. He hadn’t been the only one to overhear the man’s earlier comment to Erik in the foyer about _weakness,_ but they shouldn’t waste time or energy on Stryker’s idiocy.

“If we’re going to be holed up in this fort, we’ll need to find better booze than this.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Raven says pointedly, “for organising rooms for us to stay in, since the boat doesn’t leave port for another week.”

“We do appreciate it,” Betsy tells Charles. To Stryker, she says, “you’ve had far worse booze. Stop trying to pick a fight.” Stryker scowls at being caught out and cracks open a bottle to pour himself a shot. “The last thing we need are more injuries.”

Gently, Raven asks, “how’s Warren holding up?”

Betsy’s smile, such as it is, dwindles away. “Not good.”

<><><><><>

Lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow, Warren fights back the urge to either start screaming or crying again.

He’d spent most of the time between the rough patch job Betsy and Raven had given him on the outskirts of the City of the Dead, and arriving at the fort, alternating between both options. He doesn’t remember much else of the journey besides. His first coherent memory since… since, was Betsy, wrapping the new bandage in place.

He slowly drags himself up off the bed, then throws open the connecting doors separating the bedroom and sitting room. He stalks over to the coffee table and picks up the unopened bottle of vodka.

He scowls at it for a long moment, then places it back on the table. The nurse had strongly recommended he avoid consuming alcohol for the time being, and he’d only agreed for Betsy’s sake. She’s always insisted on a clause in her contracts for not mixing liquor and medications and, even though he’s unsigned, he’ll respect this.

There had been so little colour in her face when he’d finally regained his senses; she’d been almost as pale as his scythe.

Warren looks down at it, still in his hand. Somehow, it’s easy to forget he’s holding it, it fits so well in his palm. He sets it down next to the vodka, then flexes his fingers. His hand feels oddly empty without it.

There’s a knock on the main doors behind him. “It’s open,” he calls, expecting Betsy and the nurse, back to check on him.

“Well, don’t you look like death warmed over?”

Warren turns slowly on his heel, outraged beyond fury. _“You,”_ he snarls. “You coward, you dishonourable swine, I’m going to –” but his words die in his throat.

“You have a guest.” Shaw needlessly gestures to the hooded figure accompanying him. A figure whose gaunt, skeletal fingers are raising toward the clasp of the cloak.

Warren’s heart begins to race so fast he’s convinced it’s going to burst out of his chest. “No…” He feels pinned to the spot, fear freezing his limbs. “Oh, gods…”

“The First One,” Shaw says deliberately, “thanks you for your earlier contribution. But more is needed to restore his glory.”

The cloak is shed. The sight of the mummy is even more monstrous in the daylight.

“Please, no,” Warren croaks, almost sobs. He shudders, is very aware of the lack of feathers, which would, _should,_ also be quivering. “No.”

Shaw smirks. “The four of you bought this curse upon yourselves.”

A burst of incredulous anger, breaking through his fear enough for Warren to start backing away. How did Erik ever manage to endure his contract with Shaw? Warren judges the distance to the open window and its balcony, calculates the drop from it to the courtyard below. He can probably make it, even without his wings.

Then, the mummy speaks.

_“Kneel.”_

Warren’s legs start folding before he can stop himself. With both knees on the floor, his wings feel overly heavy at his back. Terror returns in full force. He tries to get back up, but his body won’t obey him. He can’t – he can’t stand.

He’s going to die. He’s going to be killed.

What was the last thing he said to Betsy?

As he presses his thumb against his ring, the mummy speaks again. “What weighs upon your soul, child?”

As if compelled to answer, the words leave his mouth immediately. “I’m _mourning.”_

Shaw saunters forward, towards the table. Thinking he’s going for the weapon, Warren again tries and fails to rise, but Shaw only reaches for the bottle. He unseals it, takes one of the accompanying glasses, and pours himself a drink. “Don’t mind me,” he says, settling into an armchair. “This is _your_ revelation, after all.”

It’s far easier to stay focused on Shaw than to acknowledge the mummy, still standing there, still watching him. “Why are you _doing_ this?”

“You know what they say,” Shaw responds simply. “I told you: becoming Death will make you stronger.”

For a moment, Warren believes him, with utter certainty. When the moment passes, he doesn’t understand why, because “that’s not what you –”

“That’s exactly what I said.” Shaw raises an eyebrow. “You asked for justice.”

“You said _unjust,”_ he argues, even though he’s not wholly confident about what was said anymore. It had been a pointed dig about Erik’s poem, he’s sure. “Unjust lords and false gods –” but he flinches as this earns a displeased snarl from the mummy. Warren presses his fists to the floor. His knees are starting to hurt.

“Peace, Lord,” Shaw says easily. “He means no offence.” Warren’s relieved when the mummy’s appeased by this. “Hmm. You enjoyed Erik’s narration, didn’t you? Here’s another narrative you’ll appreciate. This one’s called: ‘A Man Struggles with His Changing Persona.’”

><><

This is too much for me today.

My soul abandons me – I cannot listen to it anymore. My thoughts, dragging me towards death before my time, call upon me to cast my body into the fires of the Underworld.

Oh! My heart cries – delay me from death!

But my new persona whispers – would this be so bad? To stand before the gods, to be given clarity? For only they know the secrets of the soul.

Art thou only a man whilst living? Or can true measure only be found in death’s wake?

><><

Shaw pauses, to sip at his drink. “Five verses to go. And by the end of them, you’ll deem yourself a changed man too, Mr Worthington.”

“I don’t see my father here,” Warren snaps, to mask his fear. Besides, Shaw _knows_ how he feels about being addressed like that.

The man continues as if uninterrupted. “Named for your father, and his father before him.”

The mummy takes interest in this anecdote. “Your father dishonoured you; your shared name.”

Warren doesn’t want to talk about this – it’s dead, buried – but suddenly he’s thinking about it.

Warren Worthington Junior is a self-professed businessman, though Warren Worthington III uses the term ‘profiteer’ because it’s a far more accurate description of his father’s dealings. An exporter by trade, he owns a string of smaller businesses which deal in funerary offerings and embalming equipment. There’s very little he won’t do to close a deal.

“It wasn’t personal,” Warren mutters bitterly. “It was just good business.” The words are still as hollow as they’ve ever been. He flexes his wings defensively out of habit, then bites back a cry of pain.

The mummy’s gaze tracks across his bare wings. Warren wants to pull them back in, but… doesn’t. He unclenches his fists to flex his fingers. He wants a weapon. A gun, a knife, his scythe.

“Your wings are formidable.”

“My wings –”

><><

I refute these whispers – for I must. For thy fate is still death, even though thy name may remain behind.

What legacy does a name hold? Given life, merely to serve as heir to my father’s house, to gift offerings to him, yet to receive naught but his name.

Duty-bound to stand by his grave on the day of burial, to mourn. Nay – only the gods will I honour with his last rites. For has he not already prepared the bed of his cemetery in thoughts and deeds?

><><

His father hadn’t thought much of his wings, considered them to be unnecessary and awkward appendages. He mostly ignored them, unless complaining about them, until Warren was ten years old. His father had brokered a deal for the acquisition of a smaller business, in exchange for replenishing their stocks. The deal was time sensitive, and an intern had made a miscalculation during the last inventory check.

His father’s wares had been short forty feathers.

There had been eighty adorning Warren’s wings.

‘You were about to moult anyway,’ his father had said. ‘You’re welcome,’ he’d said, because he’d been generous to take enough care not to cause any permanent damage. ‘A lesson in investment,’ he’d said, when demanding Warren receive a ten percent cut of the profits for wares drawn from all his future moults.

Warren had hidden in his room with his half-plucked wings until his new feathers had finished coming in.

“You _destroyed_ my wings!”

“Unintentionally, on his part,” Shaw comments, in an offhand way that makes Warren wish he was close enough to hit him. “Your Lord had only just woken up, and he had no eyes.”

“I can restore them,” the mummy states.

Warren’s distress is briefly displaced by an intense yearning. He’s quick to tamper it down, guarding against it with suspicion, and scoffs. “But at what cost?” There’s always a price to pay.

He’s had many contracts over the years, for a variety of signatories. He was always willing to serve. A binding oath must be upheld. Negotiations around clauses always involve some give-and-take.

_‘_ _Your ba and sekhem are strongly connected.’_

Warren jerks at the voice in his head, but his knees _still_ don’t leave the floor. He can’t help the aborted motion for his scythe, even though it’s out of reach. The gesture makes the mummy smile, which is a terrifying thing in of itself.

“You are comfortable with the weight of it. Being an enforcer of the transition, of the souls passing through the crossroads.”

“An enforcer? Yeah, I…”

He’d been arrested for brawling – emancipated from his security contract, he was leaving the estate grounds when the handful of disgruntled less-paid contractors had ambushed him. He’d been kicked down a hill and landed in a pond. His feathers had been soaked, but he’d still won the fight in the end.

From the selection of weapons he’d been offered as part of his enforcer contract, he’d chosen a silver crook. It had a curve to it not dissimilar to his scythe. He’d use it to hook fighters and toss them out of the ring. Then they’d sign contracts of their own and depart for greener pastures.

When he finally got an offer, he’d have taken it regardless – but he’d been pleased it was from Betsy, for a small job at Alkali Lake.

><><

My new persona cajoles – take thyself from thy house. Go to the hillside, let thy spirit soar up to the skies above.

Listen – behold the pursuit of indulgent days. Cast aside and forget all troubles.

But still my heart cries for vigilance – I see the forthcoming evening of high water.

Yet, upon these crossroads, already I am changing. Already I am submerged by these waters, sundered as if by a river from my wife. No words pass between us – I am like another man, and she sings an unfamiliar song.

><><

“Extemporise,” he whispers. The word’s important – it matters, to both him and Betsy, but – but he can’t remember _why,_ can’t remember what it _means_ anymore.

“Have mercy upon your servant, Lord,” Shaw says, still using his narration voice. He leans forward, setting the glass back on the table. It’s still half-full. “Heal this weakness vexing my bones.”

A memory, sudden and sharp, as if plucked from the depths of his mind: _Betsy grins when he asks what his colour ranking is. “Bone, Angel. Because you’re a strong fighter; a balanced one. And because you play a mean game of knucklebones.” She tosses her handful of knucklebones into the air, twists her hand, catches three of them._

He hands a feather to Raven, so she can give a man who disrespected her last rites. He takes care of the dead. He sits between two women he respects, and they treat his wings with respect. He holds a scarab skeleton in his hand. His feathers are torn from their roots and turn to dust.

His wings. _His wings._

“I am a benevolent god, to those who serve faithfully.” The god approaches him, and Angel – he should recoil, should try to move away – he respectfully bows his head. “Consider this a gesture of good faith.”

Bony fingers curl over the bandaged section of his wing. Angel squeezes his eyes shut. He’s expecting pain, so is pleasantly surprised when the sensation that follows is like the welcome chill of an ice-cube on a hot day. He _feels_ the broken bone knitting itself back together.

What had there been to fear? Bones aren’t inherently sinister. Two hands hold a wishbone, make a wish, and pull. A snap. The larger piece brings good fortune.

Good as new. The bandage falls away.

Shaw’s standing by the window now, peering out over the balcony at the courtyard below. When did that happen? The man glances over as the god moves away from Angel. “Three more verses. I think I’ll leave the last one to you, Lord.”

The First One tilts his head slightly, similar to what Charles does sometimes when he’s listening to Erik’s silence.

Angel drops his gaze to the floor, is immediately distracted by his shadow. It’s curved, arced in a semi-circle around him, unnaturally ignoring both the light and his body. It… looks like his scythe.

Something’s happening to him, and he’s powerless to stop it.

“You shall fetch my Consort to me,” the god instructs Shaw.

His Consort?

…Erik.

The tunnels were dark. Erik had spoken his name into the shadows – his name was Warren, it’s Warren – but he couldn’t answer. He’d taken up his scythe and crawled away into the dark. Death is just another journey.

His admiration for Erik remains the same. But when he searches for the colour associated with this, he only finds the same washed-out paleness which seems to shade everything now.

“You should thank your Lord for his generosity,” Shaw says.

The words of gratitude leave his lips with genuine sincerity. This pleases the First One. Angel stretches his wings back, then curves them forward.

Were his wing bones always the same colour as his scythe?

><><

Oh! How I long for summer days, when the sky is hot. But now I fade into shadows.

To whom can I speak? The face of an intimate friend disappears; a brother with whom one has worked has become an enemy. Foul fellows are now the friends of today; I belong to violence and malady.

No man has a heart upon which one may rely. There are no righteous left in this land. The gentle man has perished; the man I was, he no longer exists.

And so, I say to my heart – now behold my name!

><><

“…Can you _really_ fix my wings? Return the feathers?”

The god inclines his head. “I can make them even better. You’ll be stronger, faster.”

“There’s a balance to everything, Azrael,” Shaw comments.

“That’s not… my name?” Angel frowns. What is an Angel of Death without his wings? Still a reaper. A facilitator, to gather souls, to bridge the realms of the living and the dead. “A balance.” He disturbed the undead, death is recompense. An oath, once sworn, must be fulfilled. “A price.”

_‘An offering. Worship is the way of things. Already, you pay homage to a god at the turn of each season.’_

A red sky in the morning, a shepherd’s warning. The first red dawn of the season, he presents his offerings and recites his prayers. “An offering given by this devotee, to Sokar, falcon god, he of the sand, he of tombs and the Underworld. I give these invocation offerings of beer, feathers, and silver. For every good thing the sky brings, and the earth gives; for I live by your True Voice.” So that the god may bless his flights with good fortune for the coming season.

An entire pantheon of gods – and now one stands before him.

The First One reaches down, his withered fingers wrapping around the hilt of the scythe and holding it aloft. “The lore holds true, Horseman. Adamantium weapons cannot be bested by any other means. Your wings shall gleam.”

Angel spreads his bare wings in anticipation. “An offering,” he repeats; a question.

“One feather,” the god says. “For thousands more.”

He has no feathers left. But, as he looks down at his hands, there’s a representation which might serve. “This?” He raises his right hand. The god nods, so Angel slides the gold ring with its wing glyph from his finger.

He hesitates.

He doesn’t want to part with it.

_She smiles at him. “It’s okay, Angel. I understand.”_

The First One holds out his hand. Angel offers him the ring, in exchange for the scythe.

><><

Death is my mantle today – like the finding of a lost man, like new lifeblood from stagnant waters.

Death is my mantle today – like the clearing of the sky, with a man raised aloft by what he knew not.

Death is my mantle today – like a man bought before his house again, after many years held in captivity.

Death is my mantle today – surely he who is yonder is a living god. My name and my mantle are offered in servitude.

><><

“Arise,” the god decrees.

Angel stands. The First One hands something small and gold off to Shaw, then turns towards the fireplace. He raises a hand, a look of concentration on his mummified face. A vertical line of psionic energy slowly bleeds into existence – it’s a dark blue, almost grey shade, rather than the bright purple he’s more accustomed to seeing. The line pulls itself wider, becoming an upright oval, with an astral void lying within it. A portal to nowhere; thus anywhere; therefore everywhere.

“Have fun,” Shaw remarks, leaving the room through the main doors.

“Come.”

The god steps into the portal. Angel follows. The void inside is like a shroud made out of silence and the absence of starlight.

He steps out of the void, and into his father’s office.

The large space is as cold and uninviting as he remembers it being – dark tiled floor; blood-red rug; illuminated by low lamplight. Imposing cabinets line the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with items taken as trophies, to denote successful business mergers. There are papers on his father’s desk – inventory reports, Angel gleans from a cursory glance. The First One, standing by the filing cabinet in the back corner, is well cloaked by his hood and the darkness.

Angel doesn’t need to ask why they’re here. He already knows.

The door opens, closes. The man makes it halfway into the room before noticing he has company and comes to a halt.

“Mr Worthington,” Angel greets coldly, raising his head to look at him.

His father gapes. “Warren?”

The name has _never_ sounded like his own from this man’s mouth. “The Lesser Worthington, you mean.” That was how their acquaintances would distinguish between the generations; Senior; Junior; and Lesser. Three strikes; bad luck. “Aren’t you pleased to have me home, father? You write before every moult to insist on it.”

His father’s eyes dart to skeletal wings and he wrinkles his nose. “Yet you keep refusing. Now you show up, featherless. What are you doing with them, building a nest?”

Only the once. “As opposed to a hoard.”

“A _stockpile,”_ his father corrects, as patronisingly as ever. Then he sniffs. “You look dreadful. Still getting involved with freelancers and criminals, I take it?”

“What do you care?”

“I will not have you ruining the reputation of our family name with your foolish antics, boy! It’s bad for business. And if I have to keep teaching you this lesson until you learn it, I will.”

Warren pulls a sheet free from the assortment of papers. “By sticking me in a cage?” He doubts Mr Worthington’s planning to keep a flock of ostriches in the basement.

His father scowls and starts forward towards the desk. “Give me that. And get away from there. If you’re going to shirk your responsibilities to the business –”

“I have new responsibilities now.”

Mr Worthington’s eyes go wide as he catches sight of the scythe in Angel’s hand. He immediately back-pedals, stumbling in his haste – he trips on the edge of the carpet and falls.

“Warren,” his father implores. “I know we haven’t had the best relationship – I admit, I’ve made some mistakes – but you’re my son! I’ve always cared for you!”

Angel meets Mr Worthington’s gaze expressionlessly. He plucks his father’s quill from its ink pot and holds it up. “Enough to keep a trophy.” All the colour leaves his father’s face. Angel twirls the feather between his fingers. “You plucked forty-one from me. Was this the first, or the last?”

“Warren –”

Third time unlucky. “That’s not my name anymore.” Angel spreads his wings of bone. _‘An offering, my Lord.’_

The First One raises his hand. This time, there’s pain; intense, yet fleeting. Pin feathers emerge, sharp points of gleaming silver which grow into full length feathers in the time it takes Angel to breath in then out again. He flexes his new wings.

The smile he gives his father is not a kind one. “Go forth now, O Fallen, to whatever fate awaits you in the afterlife.” He raises his scythe.

Mr Worthington chokes on his scream.

><><

My new persona commands – set mourning aside, thou who belongs to me.

My heart concedes – although thou is changed, thou still clings to life.

I decree to my soul – I shall come to rest after thou hast relaxed in death.

><><

They return to the fort via another portal.

The god rewards his work with new armour, also made of adamantium, slowly rippling into existence around him. Years of blood and sweat and tears, it makes for a nice change to have something to show for his efforts. To be appreciated.

“I would seek your favour, my Lord.”

“Stretch out thine hand.”

Angel complies, extending his right arm, scythe still in hand. There’s a diamond shaped gap in the armour, exposing a patch of bare skin.

The First One hovers his hand over Angel’s forearm. Ribbons of golden light spill across his skin, lines inking themselves onto his flesh to form a glyph – a curved blade atop a small, narrow hilt. The clearer and more defined the image becomes, the more invincible he feels.

And as his strength grows, the First One draws strength from him, and a portion of the god’s glory returns. Already, the land takes heed; as he watches, the clear liquid within the bottle and glass upon the table darkens to red.

“The first of four Horsemen,” En Sabah Nur proclaims triumphantly. “My Archangel of Death.”

The glyph on his arm turns black.

<><><><><>

Betsy nods, as Stryker moves to fill up her glass, and continues picking at the edges of her fingernails.

Despite the nurse’s confidence the wing bone itself would heal, he couldn’t offer much of an opinion on the possible condition of any feather regrowth. Warren wasn’t due to moult for another two months, but if his feather follicles were damaged too severely, the feathers may not grow back at all.

She still doesn’t know exactly what that monster did to him. He’d refused to say. But she’s glad Erik got there in time to prevent anything else happening to Warren – and she’s glad _they_ all got there before the mummy got his hands on _Erik_ too.

She can’t shake the sight of the corpse from her mind. The way it _looked_ at her – like it _knew_ her. The very thought of the mummy coming anywhere near her or Warren again is sickening.

Betsy slides her hand under her hair to wipe at the back of her neck. The fort’s very warm – she’s been feeling flushed since they arrived. Unless she’s coming down with something. In any case, the alcohol’s probably not helping, but she can’t find it in herself to care. She really needs a drink.

Stryker sets down the bottle and reaches for his glass. She, Raven, and Charles pick up theirs too. Stryker hefts his glass in a toast. “Praise to Shezmu, and victory.”

Betsy doesn’t echo the mantra, popular amongst soldiers, but still raises her drink. “Cheers,” Raven mutters, as the four of them tap their glasses together, and Charles idly scratches his astral cat behind the ears as she hisses.

They all down their shots.

The moment the liquid touches her tongue, Betsy gags. The warm, cloying, metallic fluid immediately makes her stomach roll, the scent lingering at the back of her throat, in her nose. She heaves, coughing up bile as she sprays liquid all over the counter.

She’s not the only one to hastily eject a mouthful of drink. Stryker, Raven, and Charles do the same – as does everyone else in the atrium. Betsy wipes at her mouth, fighting back her nausea.

“Gods!” Stryker curses, holding his glass away from him and squinting at it in accusation. “That tasted like…”

Charles drops his glass. It shatters on the floor by his feet. “Blood.” He’s staring at the fountain – which is no longer flowing with _water._

“And all the waters of Egypt ran red,” Raven intones with numb horror. “And were as blood.”

A different sort of nausea burns in Betsy’s throat. “He’s _here?”_

Sekhmet hisses lowly, fur bristling. The spike of panic from Charles is so intense Betsy finds herself on her feet, psionic energy at her fingertips, without thinking about it.

_“Erik.”_

<><><><><>

His decision to meditate in the deserted courtyard has done his stress levels some good. The aesthetics are pleasant, even if the mesh-like reinforcement on the windows are somewhat reminiscent of a cage. The balconies and archways remain unbarred, at least, with the open sky above lending a brightness to the area. And there’s enough easily accessible metal – lanterns, taps – to be reassuring.

He’s foregone any of the benches in favour of sitting on the brick paving, beside one of the rectangular garden arrangements. The gardens themselves are mainly full of shrubs and ferns, though there’s a tree on the other side of the courtyard, and a stone water feature built into the wall behind it; he can hear the water running.

Erik breathes deeply. His father used to say, ‘silence speaks wise counsel – a tranquil heart may war with thyself safely.’ The proverb has served him well over the years.

He still thinks they should run, but if his friends insist on being noble about this, he’s not letting either of them near the recently resurrected god without him there to protect them.

A rustle in the greenery draws his attention. Erik carefully shifts his upraised palm from his knee to the ground, next to the garden-bed verge. There’s another rustle, then a small-spotted lizard emerges to scent at his wrist before crawling onto his hand.

“Hello there,” Erik murmurs. He gently strokes his thumb over the lizard’s tail. It blinks up at him with dark eyes and doesn’t fidget when he brings his hand back atop his knee. “You’re adventurous. Wonder if I should name you.”

He’s always had a soft spot for small reptiles. At the orphanage, there’d been a corner of the garden the other kids avoided because it was popular with the lizards. He used to sit there sometimes; if he kept still enough, they’d climb over him. He’s never named any of them before, though, and he blames Raven for the new consideration.

“Maybe Nasir? Or Furqan?” The lizard stretches a little, settling its head comfortably above his pulse point. “Or whatever means lizard in Ancient Egyptian.” He wonders if Charles has ever summoned an astral lizard before. He traces over his brooch with his metal sense.

The familiar gold band worn by the approaching figure is a good, if surprising, sign – he didn’t expect Warren to take him up on the offer to talk about what happened in the tunnels. “For the record, if you’re still interested, I’ll drink with you.”

The familiar, pleased hum from behind him, however, is emphatically _not_ Warren.

Erik stiffens. The lizard, wondrously intelligent creature it is, senses the danger and flees, scampering back into the undergrowth to hide. He sympathises. He slides out the small knife tucked in his boot, the hilt finding his palm easily. “Where’s Warren?”

“Stepped out for some air. The change of scenery will do him good. Don’t fret – he’ll return to his room before too long.”

Erik gets to his feet, turns to glower at Shaw. “Where have _you_ been?”

The smirk aimed back at him is unpleasantly lascivious. “Did you miss me?”

“About as much as being flayed open,” he retorts, his back stinging faintly with the memory of a whip. “I’m disappointed you weren’t eaten by the beetles.”

“Erik,” Shaw chides lightly. And Erik _hates_ that particular tone, because it always means he’s about to be subjected to something emotionally disturbing.

“Not that I want to stay and chat, but I must be getting back to my signatory.”

Shaw rotates the ill-gotten ring ninety degrees. “Ah, but he’s not your signatory anymore, is he? You’ve fulfilled the terms of your contract.”

Erik blinks. He’d honestly forgotten their return to Cairo meant he was emancipated again. He’s more irritated than surprised Shaw knows this. Laurio was quite talkative after a drink or two, and the Warden likely offered Shaw the information on the assumption he’d dispose of the siblings, allowing the Warden to claim their shares of the treasure.

“Do you think that’s all he is to me? A contract?” The taunt’s a calculated one, and worth it for the way Shaw’s mouth flattens into an unhappy line. “I should really be getting back to _my friends_ now.” He starts to walk away. “A rose by any other name,” he adds, to reiterate it’s not Charles being his signatory that defines how Erik feels about him.

Shaw’s pause is deliberate, designed to create space for maximum impact.

“Your mother would approve. She was fond of poppies.”

Erik comes to an immediate halt. This is a trap, he _knows_ it’s a trap, but – his mother _was_ fond of poppies, and _he’s never mentioned this to Shaw._

“The temple had such a lovely display of them. Ruined, of course, with the extensive damages. But I personally found the mural of genuflection more appealing.”

He gives voice to the numb realisation as it occurs. “You were there.”

His parents had been two of the twelve people who’d died in the temple’s collapse; they’d gone to speak to the priest about arranging a private service. Erik had stayed behind at the hospice where his mother worked as a cleaner – he was often minded by the staff there while his parents were busy. Grand-mère Genevieve, as she’d insisted he call her, had been his favourite because she always used to bake him treats.

He’d never been fond of Voss though. Before owning the casbah, Voss had worked at the hospice as a nurse. She’d had an errand to run that day, had offered to take him along, so he could surprise his parents for lunch.

He’d found their bodies beneath the rubble.

Later, he’d been told a section of the small temple had been under construction – the side wall had been pierced, and a fault in the structure had bought most of the roof down with it. But that’s all he was told, and the authorities had been quick to reclassify the ‘incident’ as an ‘accident.’ Voss had spoken to them for a while at the scene and he’d wondered if she’d learned anything more. But he hadn’t seen her again after that – not until the night he’d killed her.

In addition to being proprietor of the casbah, Voss was an information dealer for freelancers, so the clause in his old contract not to enter the casbah was standard. He’d headed for her office the moment he’d been emancipated.

He’d found the papers easily enough – Voss had colour-coded her contractor files accordingly – but almost everything in the document had been redacted, in relation to an ‘Operation Caspartina.’ And there was a handwritten note about payment – ten thousand gold coins, paid in full.

“You were there,” he repeats, this time in accusation.

“Edie’s death was quick, which will be a comfort to you. A single blow, barely a moment between life and death.”

She’d died from a small metal ball-bearing, which had struck her between the eyes and lodged itself in her brain. The funerary priest had said it would have hit with the force of a bullet, that she’d been unlucky, because if it had hit her almost anywhere else, she may have survived.

“Your father, on the other hand. Jakob died slowly, and in agony. He was so very frightened, of death, of losing his family.”

His father had been impaled by a sceptre. It had pierced his stomach and continued out his back, the long staff sinking to about half its length, and the forked end had made bleeding out inevitable.

The knife in Erik’s hand shudders as he’s caught by a fresh wave of anguish. _Mama. Papa._

Almost as an afterthought, Shaw adds, “his blood got all over my boots.”

Grief is superheated into rage. Like a steel cable that’s been under too much tension for too long, Erik’s self-control snaps. He launches himself at Shaw.

The knife _almost_ reaches Shaw’s chest, but the hand that closes around his wrist is unrelenting. He’s spun, shoved up against a pillar, while his knife goes skittering across the ground. Shaw’s other hand splays across his chest, over his heart, and it’s enough to hold him in place despite his thrashing.

“You killed them,” Erik snarls. “You _killed my parents!”_

Shaw steps closer, eyes half-lidded and his smile edged with bliss. “Yes.”

“I’ll kill you! I’ll _tear you apart_ and _paint the walls_ with _your blood!”_ Erik’s free hand finds the man’s shoulder, tries to push him away, but Shaw merely steps even closer, presses against him. “Let _go of me!”_

“But you asked for this,” Shaw insists. “Practically threw yourself into my arms, what did you expect?” He leans in, lips brushing Erik’s ear as he chuckles. “You know better.”

He _does_ know better, knows his struggling is only making Shaw stronger. He grapples at the surrounding area with his powers. The knife twitches on the ground, the nearby lantern shudders, the metal bars over the windows groan. Erik goes still at the pleased sigh against his neck.

“That’s it,” Shaw encourages, and the arousal in his voice quickly displaces Erik’s anger with panic. “You’re doing so well.” He draws back only far enough to smirk at Erik. “Ask me what I want.”

Erik hasn’t fallen for _that_ trap since he was fourteen.

A fierce hissing, spitting, has them both turning their heads. The cat’s fur is standing on end, body crouched and tail stiff, her eyes fixed on Shaw and her teeth bared.

“Sekhmet,” Erik gasps, relief flooding him. If she’s here –

Charles’s face is like thunder, his voice like ice. “Take your hands off him.”

Surprisingly, Shaw does. He regards the cat with interest as Erik twists away from him, moves to stand with Charles, who wastes no time putting himself between Erik and Shaw.

_‘Did_ _he touch you?’_ Charles’s voice is laced with all the dread he isn’t showing. _‘Did_ _he hurt you?’_

_‘Only_ _what you saw.’_ He lets his quiet gratitude for the intervention fill the space around them.

Sekhmet makes a deep growling sound in the back of her throat which is vastly disproportionate to her small size. Erik feels something in the air shift, is once again put in mind of an approaching storm. Shaw must feel it too, because he quirks an eyebrow as he comments, “well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

Charles tilts his head, the way a cat does when determining how best to tackle its prey – Sekhmet makes the same gesture. “It won’t be surprising when I hit you again.”

Erik’s jaw goes slack. Charles _hit_ Shaw?

“Oh, I rather think you’ve got bigger things to worry about than me, right now,” Shaw replies, chuckling lowly.

The familiar roar which echoes out across the courtyard sends chills down Erik’s spine.

<><><><><>

Leaving the suspiciously amused Shaw in the courtyard, he and Erik run back inside, Sekhmet keeping pace. As they near the stairs, Raven, Betsy, and Stryker come running from the other direction.

“Warren,” Betsy gasps, nauseating panic pouring off her in waves. “His room.”

Charles reaches out for a sense of Warren’s mind as they all race upstairs, and shares his impression with the others, save Stryker. Warren’s unafraid; he’s proud, basking; a newfound steel to his thoughts.

But there’s also another presence close by, their thoughts blank, and their psychic power fluctuating strangely.

They throw open the doors, bursting into the room.

The first thing Charles sees – the thing that gains everyone’s attention – are the wings. Sleek metal frames Warren, each feather a sharp blade, complimenting the new armour. He doesn’t react to their entry.

Then the _noise_ registers. An organic, wet, and fleshy sound which heralds torture or a slaughterhouse. Charles follows Warren’s gaze and finds the source of it.

The mummy stands by the fireplace, his back to them, tension wracking through his frame. His body is _regenerating,_ muscle and sinew rippling into place.

_“Tayt and Renpet,”_ Betsy breathes.

Overwhelmed by the spectrum of their collective horror, Charles unintentionally broadcasts a response. _‘We are in serious trouble._ ’

The mummy twists around, tendons and ligaments still forming as he looks at them. A handgun leaps from atop a nearby chest, landing in Erik’s hand, and Stryker draws his revolver. They both open fire. The bullets have no effect on the mummy, most of them passing straight through and shattering the ornaments on the mantle behind him.

Raven gives a sharp cry of dismay. Erik discards the empty gun carelessly, intent on reaching for another weapon.

The regenerative process comes to a halt and, as the mummy straightens, he emits an astral wave. It rolls across the room, passing over Warren without disturbing so much as a lock of his hair.

Erik raises a hand as it approaches him, fingers splayed, his alarm resonating with an instinct to _shield._ The air in front of him shimmers as metallic particles abruptly form; magnetic fields made physical. The wave slides around his barrier without breaching it, leaving him untouched – much to Charles’s relief.

The rest of them aren’t so fortunate. The wave collides with them, hurling them all backwards. Charles briefly loses all awareness of his physical senses – he feels Sekhmet stand her ground, though she curls over in pain.

This wave – was stronger than the last one.

<><><><><>

_‘Charles!’_ Erik shouts, as the others all land in a heap near the doorway. The break in his concentration makes him lose grip of the barrier, and it dissolves into nothing.

Charles broadcasts dazed reassurance at him, which isn’t _that_ reassuring. Stryker, having lost his guns mid-flight, grapples for his sword, sheathed at his waist. But though his fingers close around the hilt, he doesn’t draw the weapon, simply staring at the mummy. Betsy mouths her friend’s name, her face ashen.

“Reap their fear,” En Sabah Nur tells Warren.

And Warren – Warren grins and starts forward, hefting his scythe. It’s covered in blood.

His thoughts might not be his own anymore.

Erik brings his hand up, reaching for the adamantium – weapon, armour, wings – and with a sweep of his arm, hurls it towards the open window.

Dragged by his metal, Warren’s thrown over the balcony. His infuriated shout is distant compared to the sudden curl of admiration projected at Erik. He turns his head, gaze locking with [his god] – with the mummy.

Dimly, he notices Betsy launch herself at and over the balcony, calling for Warren; Raven scrambling in pursuit, calling both their names. But Erik’s focus narrows to [his god] _the mummy_ as it advances on him. [He’s waited so long for this.]

No.

Erik gets cornered between the wall and a bookcase. His gaze darts to the hand reaching towards him, [awaits the touch with anticipation,] dread constricts his throat shut.

_‘Get out of my head!’_

His defiance earns a grin. The hand flattens against the wall beside him, hemming him in. “Your will is as strong as your resonance, my Consort. Together, we shall wreak such power.”

[Together.] _Never._ Erik refuses to be anyone’s thrall. [A Consort, worthy of the attentions of a god.]

En Sabah Nur leans in, tilting his head, mouth pursing. Erik squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head aside. There’s the briefest hint of pressure against his jaw.

There’s a burst of bright, ferocious _red_ from Charles.

There’s an enraged, inhuman yowl.

Erik’s eyes snap open, just in time to see Sekhmet launching herself at the mummy.

En Sabah Nur shouts, eyes going wide in alarm. He recoils, but not fast enough to avoid Sekhmet sinking her claws into the decayed flesh of his shoulder, for purchase. He shouts again, this time in pain, as she swipes at his face, clawing across his chin and nose. There’s a dark bloom of sensation which jolts out from the telepath – blue-and-purple-and-black, like a bruise.

En Sabah Nur seizes the cat around the middle, pulls her free, then hurls her across the room.

“Sekhmet!”

She lands on her feet – of course she does, the glorious, graceful feline she is – and whirls around, murder in her eyes as she snarls.

Clutching at his jaw, En Sabah Nur returns the snarl. A dark, narrow tear of energy manifests behind him; En Sabah Nur steps backwards into the portal, and then both he and it vanishes.

<><><><><>

Not-Quite-Warren-At-Present and Betsy are sparring. Raven can tell they’re sparring, not fighting. Both of them are going through the motions, more focused on each other than what they’re doing, giving each other searching gazes.

Unsure whether she should interfere, Raven continues studying Not-Warren. He’s holding himself entirely differently, as if he’s the shapeshifter and someone else is wearing his face. And yet, the rhythm he’s keeping with Betsy is familiar and well-practised. The contradiction’s unnerving.

“Stop this,” Betsy demands. She’s trying to grab ahold of him, her hands alight with energy. The psionic advantage should work well enough to restrain him, just as it had when he’d been trying to escape the nurse earlier. “It’s done.”

Not-Warren scoffs. “There’s always another next step. You know that.” He swings his scythe in a wide arc, not aiming to connect, merely to posture. _“You_ stop with these half-measures. You’ve got two hands – use them!”

Purple sparks turn to knives in Betsy’s hands – but the blades are wisping at the edges, just like at Hamunaptra. Frowning, Raven tries calling for Charles, but she can’t hear him – or _he_ can’t hear _her._ It hadn’t been the _City_ dampening their powers after all.

“Struggling, Psylocke?” Her crossed knives catch his scythe mid-swing. “You don’t look so well.” Not-Warren smiles, as if sharing a secret. “But our god will cure what ails you.”

“Like he cured _you?”_ Betsy parries his weapon aside. “You’re not yourself.”

“I am Death.” He pulls back, launches himself up back into the sky. “And my wings aren’t only swift – they’re sharp.” He spreads his wings, then sweeps them forwards.

Projectile feathers rain down. With a surprised cry, Betsy dives behind a pillar. Raven also ducks undercover. Several feathers strike the ground nearby, embedding themselves like knives.

When Not-Warren lands, he does so by the water feature. With a swipe of his wing, he shatters the stone apart. Rubble and blood sprays across the pavement. He flexes his wings, uttering a pleased laugh. From what Raven can see from her vantage point, there’s no feather out of place – he must have regrown another for each projectile.

“Come on, Betsy,” he calls playfully. “I need you with me on this. Where have you gone?”

Raven braces herself, then shapeshifts. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, an itchiness underneath the surface of her skin, but her borrowed form holds. She steps out into the open. “Here,” she calls in Betsy’s voice, tossing her head to make Betsy’s long hair sway just so.

The distraction works – Not-Warren whirls towards her. Betsy emerges, her hands aglow, and throws herself towards him.

But Not-Warren’s boast about swift wings wasn’t undeserved. He evades Betsy, then speeds across the courtyard towards Raven. She’s already losing control of her shift as he grabs her by both arms, and she’s reverted entirely as her feet leave the ground. She cries out, panicked, as they keep rising.

“Warren!” Betsy shouts. A warning fizzle of purple light streaks by Raven’s shoulder, and Warren’s ear. “Put her down!”

Raven stares into Not-Warren’s eyes as he grins and knows what’s going to happen right before it does. “If you insist.” His grip goes slack. Raven plummets, her cry stuck in her throat.

Thankfully, he hadn’t carried her too high, and her fall’s broken by Betsy, who catches her around the middle. Her momentum sends them both crashing into a garden bed. They groan, but other than a few tender spots Raven’s unhurt, and a quick assessment of Betsy reveals the same.

Not-Warren’s feet touch down gracefully not too far away.

He’s not casting a shadow, Raven realises suddenly. Where’s his shadow?

Betsy’s hands are trembling. “This isn’t a game!”

“Fancy a round of knucklebones instead? I don’t have any with me, but I know just the thing.” Not-Warren crouches by the ruined fountain, sinks his hand into the pool of blood. “There are three of us; so, three of them.” When he retrieves his hand, blood cascades down – he’s holding something in his cupped palm, slowly being revealed – three small, spherical somethings. “A servant of the swarm,” Not-Warren muses eerily. “But they serve me in turn.”

And as the last of the blood drains, the trio of scarab beetles stir, pincers snapping hungrily.

“No…” Raven gasps. Betsy shudders.

“My throw.” He chuckles. “Let’s see if I can catch two birds with one stone.” A flick of his wrist propels the bugs through the air to land in the dirt several feet away from them.

_“Gods –_ go, _go!”_

They scramble away, the bugs eagerly giving pursuit. “Climb,” Raven cries as she makes towards the tree, leaping to grab a branch and swinging herself up. Betsy follows, then wails in dismay. Raven glances down to see the scarabs skittering up the trunk. “Come on, move!” She beckons to Betsy, even as she continues higher.

“Angel,” Betsy pleads, tossing a handful of purple sparks towards the beetles – she misses. Not-Warren laughs, easy and carefree, as if they’re genuinely only playing.

Raven shimmies her way along between two branches nearest to the building. There’s another balcony close to the tree, framing an exterior corridor rather than a room – a loggia. The branch beneath her feet bows under her weight, but the blood rush in her ears means she can’t tell if it was accompanied by a crack.

She jumps.

She almost clears the railing entirely – her shin catches it, and she tumbles through the arch and into the loggia. Winded, she rolls onto her back, sits up. Betsy’s following her path, the scarabs already on the top branch and closing the distance fast.

This time, Raven does hear the crack.

Betsy leaps as the branch splinters – she doesn’t clear the balcony railing, slamming into it instead. She almost falls backwards, but manages to catch the rail as she slips. Raven lunges for her, grabbing her arms and heaving her up over the rail. Betsy collapses beside her.

Not-Warren ascends lazily, extending his hand towards the branch, allowing the scarabs to crawl onto his palm. Raven chokes on her horror – but they don’t start feeding on him. The smile he gives Betsy is twisted with mockery. “Your turn to throw.”

“Angel, please,” Betsy begs. “You don’t have to do this. Extemporise?”

Not-Warren swivels the handle of his scythe so the blade’s pointed away from him as he puts his finger to his lips. He says nothing.

Raven _looks_ at him, sees how his smile loses its sharper edge at Betsy’s distress over his silence. Sees how the pseudo-smile which replaces it holds a distant platitude. _‘I’m sorry for your loss.’_

“Whatever’s happened to you,” Raven says quietly. “Whatever happens to her. It’s not your fault.”

Not-Warren’s gaze shifts to her. He’s reflective as he replies. “Death casts a shadow upon all.” His cupped hand dips slightly, signalling his intent to throw the handful of scarabs again. Then he pauses. He tilts his head – listening to a telepathic call. A portal of psionic energy opens in mid-air behind him, and he nods. “No peace for the wicked, Psylocke,” he tells Betsy, grinning wildly. “Until next time.”

A beat of his wings sends him backwards into the portal, which closes and vanishes along with him.

Betsy hides her face in her hands. Raven hesitantly puts a hand on her shoulder, staying quiet. What could she possibly say?

<><><><><>

Ears still ringing slightly from the force of the astral displacement, Charles gets his hands and knees under him, then gets to his feet.

In contrast, Erik slides down the wall until he’s crumpled on the floor. Sekhmet darts over to him and crawls into his lap. Erik holds her close, pressing his face into her fur as she nuzzles at him.

_‘Erik.’_ Charles staggers across the room and sinks down next to him. Erik’s trembling like a leaf and curls into Charles’s side as he reaches for him.

_‘The hieroglyph of a lizard,’_ Erik asks abruptly. _‘What does it represent?’_

_‘Prosperity,’_ he murmurs in response.

_‘Good to know.’_ Slowly, he adds, “we are in very serious trouble.”

Charles agrees with this assessment, one hundred percent.

They both startle at the gunshot and shattering of ceramics. Stryker glares at the ruined fragments of a vase, the revolver clicking on empty when he tries to fire again. “What does this guy _want?”_ Stryker turns his glower in Erik’s direction. “Other than _you.”_

Erik glares back. Sekhmet twists around to snarl at Stryker, then reapplies herself to nuzzling at Erik’s shoulder. Charles has never been so grateful for her.

“I think I know where we can get some answers,” he tells them.

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Egyptian deities:  
> ED: Sokar (or Seker) was depicted as a mummified hawk, often in possession of a crook & flail. There are references in the (historical) Book of the Dead about Sokar fashioning ritual items out of silver.  
> (Fun fact: the genus name ‘falco,’ for falcon, was derived from the Latin for ‘sickle,’ in reference to the bird’s claws.)  
> ED: Shezmu is known as the lord of wine, as well as lord of blood. A vindictive god, he was known to slaughter condemned souls.  
> ED: Tayt is the goddess of weaving and textiles; Renpet, of years.
> 
> Egyptian Hieroglyphs [as per Gardiner’s Sign List]:  
> EH: [N39] ‘Pool of water’ [the celestial pool]  
> EH: [N7] ‘Combination of sun and butcher’s block’ [the morning butcher]  
> EH: [V10] ‘Cartouche’ – historically, some cartouches were written vertically if it allowed the name to fit better.  
> EH: [T16A] ‘Scimitar’ – this glyph resembles a khopesh, an Ancient Egyptian sickle-sword.
> 
> The narrative about the struggling man was based on the ‘Dispute [Debate] Between a Man and his Ba [Soul].’ There’s been some speculation about whether the text was considered suicidal ideation.
> 
> Warren’s wingspan is 16 feet from wingtip to wingtip. For comparison, the largest living flying bird, the wandering albatross, is nearly 12 feet – with 10 primary feathers and 32 secondaries per wing. This is about the size Warren’s wings would’ve been as a child.
> 
> Azrael is the Angel of Death in Islam and some Jewish traditions. Some descriptions compare him to the traditional grim reaper; other more angelic descriptions give him 4,000 wings.
> 
> The prayer for Sokar follows the conventional offering formula in Ancient Egyptian religion.
> 
> Scripture and proverbs:  
> SP: “Have mercy upon me, O LORD; for I am weak: O LORD, heal me; for my bones are vexed.” [Psalms 6:2]  
> SP: “Stretch out thine hand upon the waters of Egypt, upon their streams, upon their rivers, and upon their ponds, and upon all their pools of water, that they may become blood.” [Exodus 7:19]  
> SP: “Even silence speaks” – Yiddish proverb.  
> SP: “With wise advice you should do war” – Hebraic proverb. Related: “For by wise counsel thou shalt make thy war; and in multitude of counsellors there is safety.” [Proverbs 24:6]
> 
> Features of Islamic architecture:  
> IA: Qa’a – a roofed reception (an atrium), often found in affluent residences.  
> IA: Sahn – a courtyard open to the sky; surrounded by interior halls and rooms. Often features a central pool.
> 
> Names have meaning. ‘Nasir’ is Arabic for ‘helper,’ and ‘Furqan’ is Arabic for ‘criterion between right and wrong; proof.’ Of course, the fact I mention this means you know the names will return.
> 
> The relationship between Warren and Betsy has seen platonic, romantic and/or sexual iterations throughout the comics. Regardless of what form their love takes here, they consider each other the most important person in their lives.
> 
> -


	11. Locusts lead to Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To touch a nerve; to hear the truth; to taste love; to scent trouble; to see another as they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Shout out to the amazing Junechildart, who drew the most incredible fanart inspired by this story! Check it out at https://www.instagram.com/p/CLABVyNDx5N/?igshid=kytuyhvjoc8h
> 
> -

<><><><><>

Even the sight of Erik and Charles keeping hold of each other’s hands can’t shake the chill that’s settled into Betsy’s bones. Charles leads them through the Museum of Antiquities, and despite their brisk pace, Sekhmet easily maintains her position on Erik’s shoulder.

“You think the curator can help us?” Betsy asks Raven.

“He’ll know something about this,” Raven replies, confident. “He said something like, ‘those who seek the god of Hamunaptra shall lose themselves.’ Given what happened, in the courtyard…” she trails off, grimacing.

‘Lost’ is a good term. Betsy’s feeling rather lost herself.

_‘The curator has company,’_ Charles informs them, relaying his impression of the three minds in the next room – Doctor McCoy is mid-discussion with Logan and Wade. A discussion that abruptly dies as they all file through the arched doorway.

Stryker pulls his handgun, aiming it between Logan’s eyes. Betsy summons a knife, relieved when it holds its shape without difficulty. Charles just stares at the curator, while Erik reaches up with his free hand to scratch Sekhmet underneath her chin.

“You’re already acquainted,” Raven notes lightly, peering around her brother to frown at the cloaked warriors. “What are they doing here?”

Doctor McCoy’s scowl typifies all disappointed mentors. “What good would it do to tell you?”

“It would do _me_ good to shoot you.” But Stryker’s gun jerks upwards of its own volition – the shot sails over Logan’s head, who doesn’t so much as blink. Stryker’s intent expression morphs to outrage. _“Lehnsherr!”_

Erik doesn’t even bother looking at the man. “I’ll reduce it to scrap next time.”

Logan’s lip quirks. “You missed,” he tells Stryker, and the man’s glare shifts back to him.

“Um.” Raven clears her throat. “Doctor? Please?”

McCoy tuts. Though he doesn’t voice anything, his thoughts must speak volumes.

“I am _not_ in the mood to be lectured, McCoy,” Charles snaps. “Now either you tell us what’s going on, or I’ll _pull the information from your mind.”_ Sekhmet jumps down from Erik’s shoulder, simply to make it more noticeable when she turns her nose up at the curator. Betsy smiles despite herself, letting her psionic knife dwindle away.

All at once, Wade becomes animated. “Kitty!” He cries excitedly, as if only just noticing her. The man darts forwards, reaching for Sekhmet.

“Woah, no –”

Raven’s alarmed warning turns out to be pointless – Wade’s attempt to pick up the cat is thwarted as his hands pass clean through her, causing her to briefly shimmer like a mirage.

“Oh, come on!” He straightens, throwing his hands up in protest. “I don’t even get to touch the kitty cat? Unfair!” The very smug Sekhmet turns her back on him, purring as she twines herself around one of Erik’s legs. Wade points at her, wounded. “Rude!”

Charles ignores this entire exchange, other than to step closer to Erik. “Well?” He asks of Doctor McCoy and Logan. “What’s it going to be?”

<><><><><>

Raven tucks herself into the chariot in the centre of the display, to give her the best vantage point to watch the rest of the room.

McCoy’s leaning forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees. He’s tired, but focused. Logan’s standing vigil beside the curator, tension coiled through his whole frame. In contrast, Wade’s casually draped upside down over a nearby chest, still pouting. But his left foot is shaking back and forth uncontrollably, betraying his concern.

Betsy’s slouched back in her chair, slowly rubbing at her arms, from cold or for comfort Raven can’t tell. Perhaps both. Stryker won’t stop pacing back and forth across the length of the room – Raven’s already running the odds about who he’s going to throw the inevitable punch at. Probably Erik.

There are two other chairs available in the room. Erik ignored both of them in favour of the low ornamental throne, which he’s _lounging_ in, because he’s fabulously dramatic and she admires him for it. Sekhmet’s curled up on his lap, nuzzling at the crook of his elbow as he pets her.

_‘He’s okay,’_ she reassures her brother. _‘He’s here, he’s safe.’_

Charles flits an acknowledgment at her. He’s very deliberately positioned by the throne, so he can put himself between Erik and anyone else. He radiates a sense of expectation at McCoy.

“For three thousand years, the X-Force have guarded the City of the Dead,” McCoy says wearily. “It was our sworn duty to prevent the rise of the Apocalypse, to ensure he would never be resurrected into the physical world.”

“And now, thanks to you, we’ve failed,” Logan snaps tersely.

Sekhmet’s growl is a pointed contrast to Charles’s mild tone. “I hardly think assigning blame, justified or otherwise, is going to help much with the situation.”

“Better to work together,” Wade agrees, turning his head to grin at Logan. “On the bright side, you don’t need to respect them, or feel any sort of responsibility for their fates!”

Logan’s face is of a man who’s heard this line before, and it always ends up leading to the exact opposite scenario. He glowers at Wade, who remains undaunted by the response.

“Where’s the rest of your brotherhood?” Erik asks, which is a good question, and will hopefully lead to a strategic advantage of numbers.

But Logan shakes his head. “Scattered, far-afield. Searching for weapons capable of killing the Apocalypse. Only we came in pursuit of him.”

“What about Irene?” Raven blurts out.

Logan glances at her, with far less contempt than he had last time they’d spoken. It’s Wade who answers though. “She’s here! Out looking for the stray fellow, the Egyptologist.”

“You sent the _blind_ woman to scout?” Stryker sneers, incredulous.

“Perish with your prejudices,” Raven snarls at him, and the man pivots mid-stride to round on her.

“You think you can intimidate me, oxygen-thief? I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of _him_ either.” Stryker’s fists are bawled so tightly, Raven half expects them to start dripping blood. “If he hadn’t fled like a coward, I’d have gotten him with my sword.” Raven sees all three X-Force members cast a wary look at the sword, sheathed at Stryker’s waist. “How dangerous can he be anyway, if he’s scared off by a cat?”

Wade sits bolt upright, twists around to sit cross-legged. “Exposition time! You know the lore about the First One – worshipped by all throughout the land, then one day he and his City vanished from the physical world. And, oh boy, does he have an extensive range of powers in his repertoire.” He starts counting them off on his fingers. “He’s a telepath, and an empath – he can induce _compulsion,_ in both thoughts and feelings. He’s super strong, super fast, with super stamina. Teleportation! Controlled astral projections, control of astral planes. Molecular manipulation.” Wade pauses, wriggles his ten extended fingers, then briefly sticks out his tongue. “And his regenerative abilities render him practically invulnerable.”

Objectively, Raven knew most of this, from the stories, and her observations of the mummy. But to have it all laid out in such plain terms is unsettling. The notion of compulsion is terrifying, far worse than anything Charles is capable of. To _know_ your thoughts and feelings aren’t your own, but to be unable to prevent them _becoming_ your own…

Logan adds, “he’s immortal.”

“Plus, the dampening effect on other mutants.” Wade drops his hands into his lap. “So, yeah, he’s dangerous.”

The mention of the dampening effect has Raven glancing speculatively at Erik. She catches Logan and Betsy doing the same. Sekhmet stretches up to nuzzle at Erik’s jaw. He ruffles her fur affectionately. “Question. Why doesn’t…” he stumbles over what to call the mummy, and settles on “the First One, like cats?”

“Cats are guardians of the Underworld,” Charles says, reaching out to pat Erik’s shoulder. The gesture turns into more of a caress, before he shifts his hand to the throne. He smirks a little as he meets Erik’s gaze. “And Sekhmet may have hurt more than his pride.”

“I hope so,” Wade offers, smiling when Sekhmet preens. “Psychic attacker or not, little Sekhmet will scare him until he’s fully regenerated.”

“But then he’ll fear nothing,” McCoy states gravely.

Charles drums his fingers on the back of the throne. “What do we know about the regeneration process?”

“The Apocalypse has four Horsemen,” Logan replies. “War, Famine, Pestilence, and –”

“Death,” Betsy concludes. Logan nods, revealing the god regains strength from each Horseman’s recruitment, then Betsy relays the wording of the curse inscribed on the chest which held their relics. “What about Warren? How do we help him?”

There’s an ominous silence from the X-Force team. Logan’s surprisingly gentle as he says, “the oath is binding, upon the soul. The revelations can’t be undone.”

Betsy’s expression crumples. She turns her face away.

“If he regenerates fully, the Apocalypse will be virtually unstoppable.” McCoy says tersely. “The stories of his ambition pale in comparison to the reality. This _accident_ might bring about the end of the world.”

Raven huffs, and isn’t surprised when Charles retorts, “if you want to blame me for this, then come out and say it. Don’t hide behind your ambient thoughts.”

McCoy bristles. “You want me to say it? Alright. Are you so arrogant, you never bother to think about the consequences of your actions?”

“Interesting perspective,” Erik says, in a low voice which makes the back of Raven’s neck prickle. “Here’s another for you to consider. Oaths, once taken, are binding – wouldn’t this include the _hom-dai?_ And if his resurrection was part of that oath, wouldn’t trying to prevent it only make his curses stronger?”

This startles McCoy and Logan, who then look thoughtful, while Wade offers Erik a grin and thumbs up. Raven nods to herself. He makes a good point – if the First One’s powers haven’t fully regenerated, surely the plagues shouldn’t be as heightened as they are.

Charles gives Erik a slow warm smile, stretches his fingers to brush against the back of Erik’s neck.

“Maybe you should’ve spent the last three thousand years working out how to kill him, so you were ready when he did awaken,” Stryker drawls, passing off most of Erik’s point as his own. Raven rolls her eyes. “Here’s an idea. You want to stop this god recruiting? How about I kill Braddock?”

He means it, even if he’s passing it off as a casual suggestion, and Betsy clearly knows it, but she doesn’t take the bait. Erik, though, doesn’t let this pass either. “You _are_ a moron then.” He returns Stryker’s glare with a blank stare. “That would send her straight to Death.”

“He’s right,” Logan admits. “Killing any potential Horseman now is not an option.”

“Well, what about him?” Stryker jabs a finger towards Erik. “En Sabah Nur’s after Lehnsherr too, but he didn’t open the chest.”

As the room’s attention shifts back to him, Erik’s quiet a few moments. “He called me his Consort.” McCoy and Logan exchange concerned looks, while Wade lists sideways and wriggles until he’s lying on his back. “And he tried to kiss me.”

“Three thousand years, he’s still obsessed with obtaining his Consort,” McCoy says tiredly.

“He’s been searching for the perfect acolyte,” Logan elaborates. “Before he was cursed, he was attempting to summon powerful forces, to produce an army of disciples. Our lore holds the Apocalypse needs a mutant strong enough to allow the transition to succeed.”

Erik drops his head back against the throne, disgruntled. “So I’m going to be the virgin sacrifice in his evil plan. Wonderful.”

Stryker scoffs. “You’d need to be a _virgin_ for that.”

With the most deadpan stare and voice Raven’s ever witnessed, Erik reiterates, “so I’m going to be his virgin sacrifice then.”

Stryker boggles at him, uncomprehending. Knowing what she does about Erik’s past, Raven’s not surprised by this. And if Stryker’s about to try and shame Erik, she _will_ march over and punch the ex-commander. But even as Stryker opens his mouth, Wade starts talking.

“Did you know virginity had nothing to do with sex in Ancient Egypt? The term wasn’t even used specifically to refer to sexual activity until the thirteen-hundreds! The root of the word, in Latin, was a botanical analogy about flourishing – then it got applied to maidens, and inexperience, and inexperienced maidens.” Wade barely stops to draw a breath. “Virgin olive oil! Because it’s produced with nothing else; mechanical means only, no chemical treatment. But a virgin sacrifice is just something that hasn’t been sacrificed before. So, yeah, maybe you’re a virgin sacrifice, but not because you haven’t had sex. Virginity is a social construct anyway.” He waves his hands. “And don’t even get me started on gender!”

Raven can’t help grinning at the man.

“Tell you what else is a social construct? Vegetables! They’re just plant parts! Also, from the Latin for flourishing. But you can have culinary vegetables and botanical fruits, and _a tomato is both!_ And a tomato is a _berry!_ But berries and fruits can wait until later. You know what you are?” He points at Erik. “You’re a blue moon. Rare, and unexpected. Oh! Eclipses of the moon, blood-moons, are represented by the Eye of Horus. But literal blue moons – when a volcanic eruption scatters dust particles? That reminds me of you. Like star dust, moonlight glitter. You know?”

Logan drops his head, pinches the bridge of his nose, but he’s smiling too. Charles is squinting at Wade, possibly wary about where these compliments are going, given all the unwanted attention Erik’s had lately.

“Particles, metallic. It’s something specific about your mutation, the magnetism. I was thinking about it back at Hamunaptra – the shielding around the City vanished after the Apocalypse arose, as the ancient Horseman of Death intended. But your powers counteracted the shield before. So! I was thinking, maybe your powers are cancelling out the First One’s dampening field too, yeah?”

“Does he _ever_ shut up?” Stryker grumbles.

Erik pauses, processing Wade’s speech. “Remind me to tell you about my olive tree calamity in Luxor some time. And I appreciate the astrology aesthetic.” He straightens in the throne, taking care not to dislodge Sekhmet from his lap. “He mentioned my resonance. The shielding – I can create a magnetic barrier.” He holds his hands out in front of him, fingers crooked, frowning in concentration. Between his palms, a small sphere of fine metallic particles shimmers into existence.

“Ooh, shiny!”

The barrier fades away and Erik lowers his hands, raking them over Sekhmet’s fur. “That’s the third physical one I’ve raised. But my own magnetic field _might_ be repelling his astral waves. My powers aren’t entirely unaffected, but you’re right, they’re holding up better than everyone else’s.”

McCoy eyes Erik speculatively. “That would make you of use to him.”

Stryker folds his arms and regards Erik like he would an unserviceable weapon. “Killing Erik still sounds like an option.”

Erik grabs hold of Sekhmet as she twists around to stare down Stryker. Shame. Raven would like to see her try to take a bite out of the man. “You can _try.”_

“If you even _try_ to touch Erik, I will _shred_ your mind,” Charles bites out. Erik tries to fight his smile by biting his bottom lip, but it doesn’t really work. He’s so far gone on her brother, it’s adorable.

Stryker’s silence reeks of resentment. He rolls his eyes and resumes pacing. “You make me sick,” Betsy tells him, shuddering.

An uneasy silence settles over the room. Raven leans on the rim of the chariot, watching. McCoy and Logan are grim. Wade’s studying the patterned ceiling with interest. Worryingly, Betsy’s looking sick and tired, literally and figuratively, and Stryker’s irritated with his own frustration. Sekhmet’s kneading her paws against Erik’s arm. Charles’s arm is now wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and Erik’s leaning into the embrace.

The good thing about watching other people is she doesn’t have to address how _she’s_ feeling.

Betsy conjures purple sparks, watches them crawl across her hand. “What about the relics?” She looks to Erik. “Could we destroy them?”

“Not mine,” Stryker snaps, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword.

There’s a brief silent exchange between Erik and Logan, facilitated by Charles. Raven suspects their concerns are the same as hers – the relics are bound by oath too. Even if Erik’s capable of damaging the indestructible adamantium, what effect might that have on the souls of the potential Horsemen? Would it help or hinder the god’s recruitment?

“The best course of action,” Logan declares, “is to keep any potential Horsemen away from the Apocalypse.”

“Erik too,” Wade adds.

“And his chosen Consort,” Logan agrees.

“This might give us the time we need to find a way to stop the Apocalypse,” McCoy says, and the barest hint of optimism brings a sense of relief to the room. To Charles, he admits, “we’ll need all the help we can get.”

Charles nods, accepting the olive branch.

Raven frowns as something catches her attention through the large bay window on the other side of the room. There’s a dark cloud on the horizon, billowing out as the wind carries it towards the city. “I think Apocalypse has recovered from his bout with Sekhmet.”

Everyone turns, following her gaze. Betsy gets to her feet, scratching at her elbow. “What is that?”

The cloud thins – it’s made up of thousands of small insects, flying in formation. They descend from the sky, vanishing from sight as they disappear between the rooftops in the distance.

“And the Lord bought forth an east wind, and the east wind bought forth the plague of locusts.”

<><><><><>

Xavier’s rooms are far more extensive than the ones he provided them with, yet he chooses to host them in a modest parlour adjacent to the small entrance foyer. William claims himself a seat as the women move towards the window.

“Are we sure the locusts didn’t come this way?” Braddock asks.

“Garden’s untouched,” Raven points out, as they tug the curtains closed. “Cursed locusts eat all the vegetation, not just crops.”

William doesn’t see why they’re bothering to cover the windows, and says as much. “Afraid the pests are spying for the First One?”

Raven shrugs. “They could be.”

“Winged companions make good scouts,” Braddock murmurs, then frowns at him. “You should know that.”

He ignores her. She’s a competent enough freelancer, but lacks true discipline. She’ll unravel quickly.

“Well.” Raven drops herself into a vacant seat. “The undead mummy isn’t our immediate problem – which isn’t a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”

They’d agreed to divide and conquer their efforts for now, with the X-Force continuing their research at the museum. He doubts their efforts will amount to anything. Wade’s a laughable excuse for a warrior, and the curator isn’t even one. As for Logan, William’s far superior than the man could ever hope to be.

“We have to stop him from regenerating.” Xavier agrees, dragging a hand down his face, frowning. “Was it only you four Lakers who opened the chest?”

“Obviously,” William bites outs.

Lehnsherr’s flat look is more intimidating than he cares to admit. “What about Shaw?”

Braddock shakes her head. “He was gone by the time we were looking at the relics.”

“Convenient for him,” Lehnsherr mutters, scowling.

William recalls Shaw’s idle remarks during their trek to Hamunaptra about clean slates and soul searching and strength of character, and reluctantly considers Lehnsherr _may_ have a point. In which case, William might need to have a talk with Shaw about what he knows.

The conversation at the museum has given him plenty to think about.

“We need to find Kelly,” Xavier states, “and bring him back to the Fort. He’ll be safer here than anywhere else in Cairo.”

“And _why_ is the Fort so safe?” William shifts his weight so he can unholster his handgun, resting it against his knee. “Didn’t help Worthington much.”

Braddock hisses, much in the same way as the cat does, and Raven and Lehnsherr both glare, but Xavier remains unruffled. “Because,” he says, in a tone William finds condescending, “there are strong psychic wards on my rooms.”

New knowledge filters into William’s thoughts: the wards prevent unwanted psychic interactions, in addition to deterring physical trespassing; Charles is capable of strengthening them, though doing so will temporarily incapacitate him, and so it’s best they wait until after finding Kelly; based on what he sensed from their last encounter with the mummy, he’s confident they’ll hold, but he’s unsure if this will continue to be the case, in the event the god fully regenerates.

William slowly taps his index finger against the side of his gun. He’s not _alarmed_ by the efficient communication, but he’ll allow it makes him a little _uneasy._ He doesn’t put it past Xavier to make good on his earlier threat if William ‘accidentally’ shoots Erik.

This thought clearly isn’t as quiet as he intended it to be.

_‘I reiterate – Erik is off-limits.’_

The words burn cold, like ice water, and William barely suppresses a shiver. “Fine then.”

With that, Xavier draws himself up, playing at command again. “You’re staying here,” he tells Erik. “With Raven. Betsy; Stryker; with me, let’s go.”

There’s instant protest from everyone; Raven leaping to her feet, while Lehnsherr releases the chair to stand straight, and Braddock takes a step back, shaking her head.

“Why do _I_ have to stay behind?”

“You’re not leaving without me, Charles –”

“I’m not going back out there –”

William raises his voice above the rest. “Don’t presume to give me orders, boy.”

The cat jumps from the floor up onto the oval pedestal table and yowls obnoxiously. Xavier starts forwards purposefully, grabs Lehnsherr by the arm and, without breaking his stride, manhandles him through the open doorway into the bedroom. The doors slam shut behind them.

The rest of them blink, stunned. Then Raven drops back into her chair, with a small “huh.” Braddock sighs, leans against the wall by the window. The cat yawns and curls up on the tabletop.

William grinds his teeth together. Xavier’s a _librarian,_ he’s not _that_ strong. Lehnsherr had to have allowed that. Pathetic.

<><><><><>

Breathless, Erik doesn’t fight Charles – wouldn’t want to, regardless, but he can feel the strength behind Charles’s hold. Secure, but not constraining. Different than what he’s used to – he knows Charles would release him if asked. Erik… doesn’t mind it.

Charles tows him across the room, then pushes at him to sit on the bed. His expression softens as Erik looks up at him. _‘You’re anxious.’_ Charles’s voice is as gentle as his hands are, still on Erik’s shoulders.

“I’m not – fine, maybe I’m anxious.” He’s been hyperaware of all the metal in his vicinity since his last encounter with Shaw – he can’t help it and its beginning to take its toll. He needs to meditate again. He draws a deep breath, blows it out in a frustrated huff. “What is it about me that entices monsters like them? Is there something inside me that’s –” broken, he almost says, but can’t bring himself to.

Charles doesn’t need him to speak. He can sense Erik’s fear that an evil lurks within him, ready to devour him from the inside out.

“No, Erik,” Charles assures him softly. _‘I’ve seen inside your mind. There’s no evil there.’_ One of his hands slides up the side of Erik’s neck, cradles his jaw as Erik tilts into the touch. “You’re warm sunlight, and dazzling moonbeams, and the good fortune of a clear sky. There’s so much _good_ in you, so much love. You… you’ve very quickly become my gravity.”

Erik’s lost all of his words, except one. _‘Charles.’_ Speechless, he offers up a memory.

_He’s a scared child, in Socotra, and he’s looking for a place to hide. The dragon blood tree is a pillar of strength in an otherwise barren landscape, its domed canopy stretching across like an open umbrella, offering shelter beneath. Erik clambers up the trunk and squeezes into the labyrinth of branches. The tree keeps him safe – he goes unnoticed by his pursuer._

_The tree bleeds red sap._

_There had been a kindly trader in the encampment. He’d sat with her as she tended to the ground, planting seeds as flowers bloomed and changed in her hair. “Dragon’s blood resin was prized in the ancient world for its healing properties.” She’d told him a story._

_There was an alchemist and a stonemason. By Panacea’s grace, the alchemist had fashioned the resin into an elixir which prolonged life. By Nyx’s grace, the mason fashioned the resin into a stone which could turn metals into gold. The two of them found each other, then found such happiness together._

_Erik had enjoyed the love story very much._

_And so, as the tree bleeds, he thinks of love. He hopes for a day where he finds someone with the strength of this tree. Someone who shelters him, heals him, and turns the darkness into light. And he’ll give them his heart, and his love, and his life – because that someone would only take these from him if they were offered freely._

“Charles,” he says again. _‘Please.’_

Another hand on his other cheek. Charles smiles, then leans in.

Erik shivers, gasps. He reaches up, tangling his fingers in Charles’s hair and eagerly returns the kiss. He must be doing it correctly, because Charles hums in his mind, a low sound of approval which reverberates through Erik’s nerves like bright sparks. He didn’t know it was possible to _taste_ happiness.

He makes a soft noise of protest when Charles withdraws, then swallows the sound at the chaste kiss to his forehead. _‘You are extraordinary.’_

An extraordinary idiot with his face on fire, is what he is. “You think so?”

Charles’s smirk sets the rest of him aflame too. “Fishing for compliments, my darling? I could put together an entire book of them, and you’ll have earned every single one.” _‘Page one: you’re an excellent kisser.’_

Horus, deliver him. Erik clears his throat. “My attention’s diverted. But not distracted.”

Charles laughs fondly. _‘Not my intention, but I take your point.’_ He rakes his fingers through Erik’s hair, mood mellowing. “This isn’t just me wanting you to be safe. It’s strategic too.”

Unfortunately, Erik knows this. “We’re playing chess,” he allows, “and we can’t afford to risk all our pieces at once.” He frowns. “But I still argue with your choice of configuration.”

“I’m open to negotiation on that point.”

He’s afraid, if he lets Charles out of his sight, they won’t see each other again. But if they’re going to be successful, they’re going to have to be smart about this. Erik pictures a chessboard, starts arranging the pieces. “We need to keep the Horsemen separated. If the First One’s currently hunting Kelly, both Stryker and Betsy should stay here.”

“Stryker’s going to be problematic. He’s been itching to put his weapons to use. I don’t doubt Betsy’s ability to deter him, but you’ve an obvious advantage.” Charles pauses. “But if you really want to come along,” he adds quietly, “I’ll respect your choice.”

Erik bites at his lip. Charles could _make_ Erik agree to remain behind. He could make Erik _want_ to remain behind. But he’s not the sort of man who ever would. Erik sighs soundlessly. “The wards on the bedroom are the strongest? Then I’ll wait in here.” This choice is the right one, tactically speaking. Doesn’t mean he’s pleased about it. “But take Raven with you.” He’ll feel better having someone he trusts watching Charles’s back.

“We’ll be careful,” Charles reassures him.

He nudges his knotted tangle of worries towards his friend. “Don’t confront the First One.” The very thought terrifies him. “And conserve your energy.” Erik’s got a bad feeling their struggle against the god is going to be a marathon, not a sprint. _‘I don’t suppose Sekhmet can keep me company, while you’re gone?’_

Warmth returns to his face full force as Charles lifts one of his hands, brushing a kiss over his knuckles. _‘The projections can’t maintain themselves too far beyond my physical proximity,’_ he murmurs apologetically. _‘Not even Sekhmet.’_

_‘Shame.’_ Erik licks his lips, drinks in Charles’s expression. “Come back to me,” he demands.

“I will.” Charles’s free hand moves to straighten Erik’s brooch, then rests over his heart. “I promise.”

<><><><><>

“Does that even need sharpening?”

“No.” Stryker doesn’t stop sliding the whetstone along the edge of the sword. “But a true warrior never neglects his weapons.”

Raven looks to her, uncertain, and Betsy nods slightly. It’s always been common to see Stryker tending to his arsenal in his down time. But Raven’s concern is still justified – Betsy _isn’t_ sure how the man’s short temper will fare, under the circumstances.

There’s a tickle in her throat. Betsy quietly clears it. She leans her head against the wall and eases the curtain aside, just enough to see out the window. “Still none in the garden.”

“Good,” Raven sighs. “They’re likely seeking out fodder anyway, which should keep them away from here.”

“Unless they’d prefer eating our Egyptologist friend.”

“Why would you _say_ that?” Raven wails, shuddering. “As if the scarabs weren’t bad enough!” Stryker chortles to himself.

A glint of silver in her peripheral vision sends a jolt through Betsy – but when she raises her gaze to the adjacent rooftop, there’s nothing to be seen.

She can’t decide whether she wants to see him again or not, so soon after his transformation.

“If the locusts _do_ turn up here, I’m not waiting around for the rest of you.”

A bitter laugh bubbles out from between Betsy’s lips. “It won’t matter. You can’t escape the East Wind.” She recites the old rhyme.

><><

Beware the East Wind — for turbulent is he;

Stirring up trouble — with each flutter of wings;

Storms shaped by his whims — wonder parts the Red Sea;

And none can outpace the destruction he brings.

><><

Stryker scowls at her, but says nothing, much to her surprise. She’d braced for snide commentary about her delivery not being as good as Warren’s.

She’d known him, still, as she’d looked at him. But had Betsy seen Warren, or had Pestilence seen Death?

The bedroom door opens. Charles emerges, shutting it behind him. Betsy smiles, letting the curtain slip through her fingers. _‘Erik’s staying here then?’_

_‘He is.’_ Charles’s mental voice rings with relief he’s definitely entitled to.

“I can lock the door,” Stryker goads. “Make sure he stays put.”

The siblings roll their eyes in unison, and Sekhmet’s ears flatten as she fixes her stare on Stryker. Charles’s patronising smile is satisfying to see. “Yes, _William,_ you may stay here. But don’t bother – a locked door wouldn’t hold him if he didn’t want to be there.” He layers psychic energy into his next words. “Stay out of the bedroom.”

It’s Stryker’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’ll stay out of the bedroom.” He doesn’t realise how binding his agreement actually is.

Charles turns to her, and they share a moment of quiet concern. _‘Other than you, no one else goes in there.’_

_‘Understood.’_ Betsy scratches at her forearm and clears her throat again. “I think Kelly has an office near the Frog Garden?” This gives Charles somewhere to start, at least – his powers should aid him in tracking Kelly from there. Betsy looks to Stryker for confirmation. “Right?”

“Right.”

Charles nods. “Right.”

“Right,” Raven concurs decisively, getting to her feet. “Let’s go, Charles.”

The siblings depart, Sekhmet with them. Stryker resumes tending to his sword. Betsy closes her eyes, feeling somewhat light-headed. But it’s more than being run down. It’s also needing headwear to ward off the weather, hot or cold.

She thinks of how easily Death had handled his scythe, and suspects how comfortably the crown would sit on her head.

It was the right decision, locking the crown away.

Now she can only hope to hold out against the urge to fetch it.

<><><><><>

The streets are practically deserted, the people of Cairo perturbed by the blood and locusts, but still holding the general consensus it’s nothing more than a mutant teenager playing a practical joke. Charles wishes this was true.

“Any hint of Kelly?” Raven asks, as they near the granaries.

“Not yet.” But this isn’t cause for immediate concern – he’s still not within range of the garden. There’s still a chance they’ll find the Egyptologist in time. “But I don’t sense the Apocalypse either.”

It’s possible En Sabah Nur is strong enough to shield himself from Charles – but an empty space where a mind should be is just as telling. Charles hopes to avoid the Apocalypse for as long as possible. Shaw’s not the only one who can stockpile power, and Charles intends to amass enough astral energy to deal with both of them.

He’s never hated anyone quite as much as he hates Erik’s pair of stalkers.

Raven ventures her next question with care. “Erik was confident about Kelly being next on the list?”

Yes, Charles has been worrying about this insight too. But he couldn’t sense anything inside Erik’s mind that wasn’t _Erik,_ and certainly nothing evil. And as for the idea Erik could be anything other than a good man – inconceivable.

The memory of their kiss is as smooth and enticing as molten chocolate. Charles would’ve been content to kiss Erik for hours, promises himself they’ll have the opportunity once this whole misadventure has passed.

Sekhmet darts ahead, coming to a halt at the corner of the adjacent granary building and the next intersection. She snarls lowly, bristling at a misshapen mass on the ground. Charles and Raven race to catch up.

_“What_ is that?”

“Don’t touch it!”

“I wasn’t going to _touch_ it, Charles, geez. Ugh, it smells gross.” Raven crouches near the lumpy mound, conducting a cautious, entirely visual inspection, while he hovers over her shoulder. The white mass has a froth-like quality in shape, but a weight more consistent with ivory. There’s a spike of realisation from Raven, immediately followed by dread.

_‘What, what is it?’_

“It’s hardened foam.” She carefully backs away. “Like the membranes locusts use to lay their eggs beneath.”

Charles eyes the mound in alarm. “There are _eggs_ under there?”

“Gods, I hope not.” Raven’s mood shifts, something catching her attention. Charles follows her gaze, even as she points. The next alleyway is streaked with more foam, along the ground and across the walls. “Maybe it’s only residue?”

“I also prefer that theory, let’s go with it.” Raven’s morbid reflections on where the locusts are headed, and why, seem probable, given the foam _is_ leading in the direction they need to go. “Follow the trail?”

“After you.” As they start moving again, she adds, “don’t touch any of it.”

“I’m not going to touch any of it,” he retorts, half-heartedly. But his unease only increases when he notices Sekhmet is delicately avoiding the foam too. Physical matter shouldn’t bother her. But he can’t afford to speculate about this now – they _have_ to find Kelly before it’s too late.

<><><><><>

Her Sight is not so diminished she can’t discern when she reaches her intended destination. But Irene won’t fool herself – she knows this will change the more Horsemen are recruited. Hopefully, she can pre-empt another, and prevent it.

She steps up onto the large fountain ledge, then down into the fountain itself. There’s barely any blood left, lapping at her ankles instead of her knees. The waters receded some time ago, all across Cairo.

A drought always heralds the plague of locusts.

Irene comes to a halt about a foot from the central pillar. Positioned in the middle of the city, the fountain isn’t precisely centred within the plaza it sits in. She’s now standing in the exact centre of Cairo.

She gathers her power. From an earlier vision, before arriving in the city, she knows the man in possession of Famine’s scales is called Kelly. His name and the relic now bound to his destiny should be enough for her to work with.

She turns her Sight towards him. There’s some resistance, a misty obscurity, but it’s no more sinister than what she encounters when trying to See Wade’s future. It doesn’t take much effort to persevere through it, to focus on the solitary figure clutching a book and a set of scales.

_He hurries down the deserted street, his breaths coming in shallow gasps, few and far between. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so drained of energy lately. He’s not unfit – even if he has eaten thrice as much as usual today._

_And he’s still hungry._

_An unexpected noise from nearby startles him. He jerks to a stop in the middle of a crossroads and whirls around, peering into the shaded alley. He can’t see anything down the alley he’d come from._

The rustle of wings, Irene discerns of the sound. Not feathered, like a bird; veined, like an insect. And if one locust finds Kelly, the whole swarm will.

_There’s nothing down the northbound path beside him either. The only thing that looks the slightest bit out of the ordinary is a shadowed alcove at the far end of the alley, which doesn’t appear to be cast by anything. But this hardly seems cause for concern – it’s impossible to tell where the light’s coming from in these streets; he’s casting two shadows himself at the moment, both gangly half-figures branching in completely opposite directions._

If the man’s shadow is already suffering, she may not have much time between now and this future. “Where are you going?” She murmurs softly. “Show me.”

_The southbound path on his other side is also deserted. He sways, uncertain, then shakes his head to try and clear his lethargy. He mustn’t linger. He needs to return to his office and collect his coffers. He’s not leaving his valuables to be pilfered by greedy servants!_

_The stash of counterfeit gold will enable him to barter passage along the smuggler routes. It’s good enough to pass basic inspection from his black market contact – an uneducated contractor who won’t know any better. The girl can arrange transport, he’ll be out of the city before dawn, and she’ll be disposed of by her master for accepting the invalid payment. A neat solution all round. And with the private plane, he can be back in Alkali Lake before anyone’s the wiser._

Private plane, Irene muses. He’ll be heading for the airfield after he reaches his quarters.

_He swiftly continues his way down the alley, heading west, grumbling as he’s forced to readjust his scarf. The wind’s started picking up._

He’s still ahead of the east wind – if she leaves now, she should be able to intercept him before –

_The shadow in the north alley moves. There’s a rush of fluttering wingbeats and locusts descend upon the street. They’re quick to head westward, in pursuit of their target._

_And then the Apocalypse stands in the centre of the crossroads. He turns his head, and –_

_“I see you, little oracle.”_

_His decayed face contorts with a malicious grin, and he reaches for her. His bony fingers brush against her arm, as his mind brushes against her own –_

Irene screams.

She throws herself out of the vision so violently she loses her balance as she stumbles backwards, falling into the shallow pool of blood. Kicking her legs, she scrambles further back.

May Khenty-Khem lead her out of this!

The sense of the Apocalypse fades upon her fleeing the vision, but the phantom touch lingers. Could he have reached her, from his present-future, into her present-past? Heart racing, Irene casts her powers towards another instead.

“Raven,” she gasps.

For a moment, she can’t See, and it terrifies her.

But she knows Raven – would know Raven anywhere. A moment later, she finds her.

_No matter what she tries, how hard she thrashes, she can’t pull herself free. Raven screams for her brother, but he still doesn’t answer._

_There’s another gargled shriek, eaten away into the low groan of the dying, of the dead._

_Charles is okay, he has to be okay._

_The hopping waves of mottled brown ooze gains more ground. Inches away now, it’s going to reach her._

_The stilted chanting begins again. “Rebirth! Rebirth! Rebirth!”_

_She doesn’t want to die; she especially doesn’t want to die like this!_

“Raven!”

<><><><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Egyptian deities:  
> ED: The god of the East Wind, Henkhisesui, is often depicted as a winged beetle with a ram’s head.  
> ED: Khenty-Khem, a form of the god Horus, is the patron of the blind. He’s also known as Hor-khenty-en-irty (‘He who has no eyes on his brow.’) He’s regarded as being dangerous to friends and foes alike.
> 
> Greek deities: Panacea is the goddess of remedy; and Nyx is the goddess of the night.
> 
> From a biological sense, vegetables don’t exist – they’re designated as a plant part (roots; leaves; etc.) The term vegetable is strictly a culinary term.
> 
> “And Moses stretched forth his rod over the land of Egypt, and the LORD brought an east wind upon the land all that day, and all that night; and when it was morning, the east wind brought the locusts.” [Exodus 10:13]
> 
> The Dragon Blood Tree is native to the Socotra archipelago, in the Arabian Sea. I love them, they look incredible.
> 
> The rhyme about the East Wind is an original, based on the anthropomorphic lore around the concept.
> 
> -

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Sorcerer, the Spirit and the Mortal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350455) by [NorthCompass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthCompass/pseuds/NorthCompass)




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